


“What made you like this?”

by sweetcreature



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, F/M, Old Friends, Old Lovers, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Pre-Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Sherlock Plays the Violin, University, Young Sherlock, canon AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 130,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcreature/pseuds/sweetcreature
Summary: No one would assume that the greatest consulting detective ever felt affection towards another human being. No one can even imagine what he's like without his cold heart and empty soul. But, everyone always wondered why he's the way he is. That question will always cross one's mind.Someone from his disliked past comes back, and the detective isn't sure how to handle himself during this time. The person opens another area in his mind that he desperately tried to suppress and remove, but never could.So, what really is the reason why he's the way he is? What made him like this?***(aka the university 'almost-lovers' reconciling fic. although, much much more painful)





	1. The Name

**Author's Note:**

> hi, this is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I was going to write a Johnlock one, but this plot was too beautiful to just forget about. I might write a Johnlock fic soon.
> 
> SOME STUFF:  
> \- The title is a quote from Dr. John Watson in S03E04: The Abominable Bride  
> \- There will be flashbacks in between some texts, to give context to what the characters are saying.  
> \- Please don't confuse the actual characters with the mind palace characters.  
> \- The story is set at the beginning of S01E02: The Blind Banker  
> \- My symbol for a time skip is '***'

William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Not everyone would be pleased upon hearing that name. Dr. John Watson was probably the only one who tolerate him, and that’s saying a lot already. Sherlock’s childhood was not very fun, but he did have caring parents. Downside of that was the overprotectiveness. His brother, Mycroft—who is doing God knows what—used to be quite kind to him. Sherlock didn’t bother asking why, though. Sentiment, it makes life so dull and at the same time, complicated.

_Speaking of which._

“Please, John. Just a few weeks? I’m trying to help her out.” Harry Watson insists with her brother through the phone, the sound of static can be heard due to the distance between the two.

It was around five in the afternoon when he received a call from his sister. Surprising, yes, but now it just became exasperating. He wasn’t in the middle of a case with his consulting detective companion – who pays him no mind as he sat quietly on the sofa with his eyes closed – but still.

Harry Watson lived in America for a few years now. Although, occasionally, she comes to visit him in London. She only moved there because her wife lived there. When they got married, John and his sister slowly grew apart. He stopped tracking her alcoholic habits because of that. John hoped that she grew out of it the way she grew out of her failed marriage.

John just rolls his eyes at the man and shakes his head as he listens to his sister. “Now’s really not a good time, our flat isn’t the biggest for guests.” He clarifies with her, only to hear a sigh at the end of the line.

It is true. The flat is perfect for Sherlock and John, but it doesn’t have enough room for a third person. As much as he’d like to help his sister, who contacted him after such a long time, the flat was a mess and it is small.

“I promise that she won’t mind. She’s not a very picky person, I tell you.” She reassures him.

“Why didn’t you just change your flight to match with hers?” He asks, pinching the skin between his brows.

His sister told him that her friend scheduled a flight to London to attend a meeting with her. Harry, being the clumsiest person that John ever had the bad fortune of growing up with, had to schedule on the wrong date, making her a few weeks later. It was frustrating, but he was glad that she contacted him. Whoever this person was, she didn’t live very close to Harry. Why didn’t Harry just book their flights together in the first place?

He hears her sigh. “I know, but I have work to do and the thing with Clara...”

John just nods, even though she couldn’t see him. He understood that she was going through a divorce; maybe this is the least he could do to at least make her feel better. “Alright,” he agreed and heard her let out a breath in relief. “—but only for a few weeks.” He reminds.

“Thank you, John. I owe you.” She says. “She won’t be a problem, I promise you.”

“Did you tell her that I have a flatmate?” There is somewhat concern in his voice. He knows that Sherlock hated guests unless they were clients who will present a case for him to solve.

“That won’t bother her, don’t worry.”

John raises his brows, glancing at his dormant friend again. “You sure?”

“Why? Is your flatmate a mutant or something?” She chuckles, even though John clicks his tongue and was actually considering it.

He shakes his head. “Never mind. When is she arriving?”

“Two days.”

John sighs exasperatedly. “Alright. She can take my room. I’m sure that I’ll survive.” He reassures himself more than he reassures his own sister.

“Great, thank you so much, John. Call me when you need something.” She reminds.

“Actually—” he begins, but is cut off by the line, indicating that she already hung up. He scoffs and shakes his head at his phone. John slips it back into his pocket and makes his way to the man lying on the couch. He stands right in front of him and waits for the other man to respond. When he gets none, a sarcastic smile appears on his face. “Someone’s going to stay with us for a few weeks. By my sister’s request.”

The man stays silent, eyes closed in an entranced manner.

John closes his eyes briefly and sighs. “Sherlock, did you hear me?”

“Busy.”

A sudden urge to swing at him strikes John, but he holds himself back. “Alright then. Well, don’t ask in a few days what a woman is doing inside our flat. She’ll be staying with us and I really hope that you’ll behave.”

Silence. Nothing from him.

John rolls his eyes. “Alright, I’m going out for groceries.” He said, not knowing why he had to say that to Sherlock, who is still not moving. “Her name is Jocelyn, by the way. I expect you to be nice.” He turns around and starts to walk away from the living room.

Sherlock’s eyes opens, blinking once and twice before sitting up. It took him a few moments to process what he just heard. He’s heard that name before, which is all too familiar. “John.”

The other man leans back to stop himself from walking and came back to the flat in just a few steps. “Yeah?”

Sherlock had an intense gaze on John, who just stares back with a questioning look. “What did you say?”  _What did he say? Didn’t I hear him? I know exactly what he says_.

 _It could be anyone. Jocelyn is a very common name for different individuals among the female species. To clarify, I would need a last name to be more specific._  Sherlock is now thinking to himself, trying to formulate the right action and string of words that he could speak to John as he stares at him, not even blinking once.

 _Oh, so now he’s paying attention?_  John thinks to himself sarcastically. “I said that I’m expecting you to be nice.”

“No, no. The name. What name did you say?” His voice was low in his throat, looking at John with somewhat calm eyes, yet his voice is intimidating. It didn’t intimidate John; he is quite used to this kind of behavior from his friend.

He only looks at him with confusion. “Jocelyn, why?”

For a few moments, he just looks at John with a blank expression before he lies back down on his couch to close his eyes. John sighs and let himself out for groceries, still using Sherlock’s card since he lacks a job still. He turns his collar up to have it fight against the cold breeze the moment he steps outside. When he moved in with Sherlock two months ago, there was a lot to learn about him. At the same time, there isn’t enough information about Sherlock. To John, he is still a mystery. Of course, he knows the basic things about him. Like how he’s apparently a consulting detective. He knows that solving cases is his own type of drug. His brother works for the government. He knows that he can be so heartless with the things he deduces about people, as if reading them like an open book, but he is unaware of how horrible he sounds sometimes. It’s like dealing with a child, an intelligent child that doesn’t seem to know the difference between good and bad. Sometimes, he wonders if Sherlock is lonely. Seeing that John is his first roommate and first friend, Sherlock must get lonely sometimes. The more John tries to put himself in Sherlock’s shoes; it is difficult to wrap his mind around the loneliness he must feel.

He really wished that he knew what the man is thinking sometimes, but at the same time, he is glad that he doesn’t. God only knows what is happening inside that brain of his. Whatever is happening in Sherlock’s mind, John might not be able to handle it. The number of times he witnessed Sherlock say that his brain moved way too fast to his accord was simply outrageous, and he only met him two months ago.

John really hopes that things will go well for their guest. With a flatmate like Sherlock, he is concerned of how the lady would handle things.

When John comes back to Baker Street with plastic bags of grocery, he doesn’t see Sherlock anywhere near where he left him earlier. He simply shrugs it off and settles the bags of groceries to their rightful places. Honestly, if Sherlock decides to leave the flat, he should at least left a note. For John to be assured of his safety. John doesn’t feel like he should say it out loud, but because of his new friend’s… eccentricity, he is worried that he might get himself in some sort of mess. Like the first time he met him, Sherlock almost swallowed a pill to prove his cleverness. John wasn’t at all amused when he realized that Sherlock would’ve done it, despite all his efforts to mention that he isn’t. He knew that Sherlock would have.

“Why would you let a stranger inside my flat?”

John jumps in surprise, glaring at him. “Christ, Sherlock. Do you always feel the need to sneak up on me?” He sighed, looking away as he stacks the canned food and puts them away inside the cupboard. His friend only stands by the entrance of the kitchen, watching him intently. “I’ll have you aware, it’s my flat too.”

Sherlock is simply unbothered by his words. “If I have to let you know, I’m not overly fond of unwanted guests.” He calmly says.

John just laughs. “As if you never remind me every time Mrs. Hudson invites her friends over.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperation and turns around to make his way to his usual spot on his chair. He dislikes the idea of having someone over. Whenever their proprietor invites her neighbors and friends, they always make a fuss about Sherlock and John being together. Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to deny it, he minds it when people just chatter away without stopping. It messes with his thinking sometimes, and he just wants peace and quiet.

John is making a cup of tea. He asks Sherlock if he’d like some, which results with him being groaned at. “Can’t you just ask you dear sister than now is not a good time?”

The doctor just shrugs, sitting himself down on his own chair. “I did, she was very persistent.”

“And how long is she staying here?” He bitterly asks, not liking the thought of someone else roaming around the floor of his flat— _their_ flat, he means.

John sips his cuppa and thinks about it, trying to gather his memory. “Two weeks, I think.”

Sherlock scowls, standing abruptly to retrieve his violin and bow. “And you can’t ask Mrs. Hudson if she has a spare flat for her to use?” He mutters and starts to play a rather mellow tune that John has never heard before. Sherlock probably composed it himself.

“Sherlock, why is it a big deal? I was a stranger when you first moved in with me. What’s so different about another person?” He laughs as he put his tea down, settling his forearms on the arms of his chair.

He immediately stops playing, the last note being off-key as he turns to John. “That is because I’ve met you first-hand and I get to decide whether I move in with you or not. I, in fact, did. So it wasn’t very difficult.” He waves him off. “You, in turn, are forcing me to get along with someone else that I have never met and this woman will be living with us tomorrow – no, in two days. You’ve been scratching the pad of your thumb for the last couple of minutes, so that means you’re nervous to meet this woman. Why? Because you’re hoping that she’ll be nice enough to ask to dinner.”

“Wait, no, hang on—”

“Since you’re likely to ask, she might as well be our age. Hence, she’s young. The fact that your sister called you to ask for a place for her to stay means she’s a friend, possibly a co-worker. This means she’s likely to be a doctor. There will be an upcoming conference for Medicine and Forensic pathology in two weeks, which I know since Molly babbled about it.” He puts emphasis on ‘babbled’ by making hand gestures to mock a mouth moving about. “Which is why this woman, whoever she may be, needs a place to stay since our lovely and alcoholic Harry Watson informed her of a wrong date, therefore, misguiding her into booking the wrong flight. Am I wrong?”

When John first met him, he was amazed by his deduction skills that he always mentioned how brilliant he was. Of course, he still thinks it’s amazing, but by now, he just thinks that it’s Sherlock’s way of fishing out a compliment from him. Which he does to contribute to his huge ego. “You’re absolutely on spot with everything, which isn’t very surprising.” He takes his cuppa and had a sip. “Is Molly going to be a speaker at the conference?”

Sherlock makes a distasteful sound. He explains how he stopped listening after Molly said that her new boyfriend was joining in. Somehow, nothing about what Sherlock does surprised him anymore. If anything, he’s just glad to learn more things about him.

“Why aren’t you looking for another case to solve? Anything from Lestrade?”

The consulting detective has a blank expression on his face. “Nothing. If there was, it wasn’t worth my time. I checked my emails and there was absolutely nothing. I am, currently, trying to remind myself to not let it get to my head. Boredom for me is very dangerous.”

“Really?”

“Not for me, for other people. Humans tend to get irked by danger. Take you, for example.” John looks up at him with alarm, a little bit offended. Sherlock only brushes him off. “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, John. Although, your type of ‘irk’ is actually an obsession for danger. So, scratch what I just said.” He is talking fast and settles his violin in the space between his shoulder and jaw line, continuing what he was playing earlier.

John shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. “So, why do you think I’m going to ask our guest to dinner?”

Sherlock plays his violin for a moment before stopping again. “Why wouldn’t you? She’s a woman, you’re a man. You’ll be living under the same roof. Upon reading your emails to various girlfriends, I’d say that it’s inevitable for you to do so.”

“You read my emails?” He gapes at him.

“Irrelevant.”

John grumbles, standing up on his feet to take his laptop off the desk. “It’s password protected.”

“It’s not exactly Fort Knox. It took me less than ten seconds to guess yours.” He calmly says, watching John open his laptop as he plays his violin.

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock, changing the password to something obvious. That way, Sherlock will spend too much time figuring it out in the hard way. However, knowing Sherlock, it’ll only take him a couple of seconds to know. He hopes that everything Sherlock does to John, he won’t do to the woman who will be staying here.

John clears his throat. “Sherlock,” he calls out to the man turning his back on him as he continues to play his instrument. “I don’t suppose you could lend me some—”

Sherlock stops playing, again. “I need to go to the bank.”

His flatmate just blinks and tries to process what he just said. He gets up and follows Sherlock out to the door.

***

“So, why are we going to the bank again?” John looks out of the window from inside the cab.

“Case.”

 _Could he be any vaguer?_  John thinks to himself. “Yeah, I see that. You never leave the flat unless for a case. What case, then?” He asks.

Sherlock contemplates whether he should answer. “It involves the bank.”

John tilts his head.  _No, he can never be vaguer._

***

When they enter the bank, John is quick to notice how Sherlock is looking around to observe things. The consulting detective walks to the front desk and informs the woman of his appointment under the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’. They are directed to the office of Sebastian Wilkes and are asked to wait for a few minutes. John looks around in the office, noticing how posh everything was. Honestly, what could he expect? He is reminded of his job or lack thereof; he really needs to get a job soon. Maybe as a doctor? He’s more than qualified to be one.

“Sherlock Holmes.” A man in a suit enters the office and greets Sherlock, reaching his hand over to shake his.

The detective just shakes his hand, no expression on his face. “Sebastian,”

“Hiya, buddy. How long has it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?” He chuckles and glances at John.

 _Eight years?_  So this man knew Sherlock way before Greg even met him. Subtracting eight years to Sherlock’s age, it would be around the time of University. Did Sherlock go to University? There are indeed many things about Sherlock that he didn’t know.

Sherlock doesn’t bother to respond to his question. “This is my friend, John Watson.”

“Friend?”

“Colleague.” John corrects as he shakes hands with Sebastian.

John only said that because the term friends were somewhat out of Sherlock’s vocabulary. He’s only sparing Sherlock some questions to receive from Sebastian about a friend of his.

Sebastian gives him a look. “Right.” He smiled at Sherlock. “Well, might as well grab a pew.” John purses his lips as he sits down on a chair in front of the table, Sebastian on the other side. Sherlock reluctantly does the same. “Do you need anything? Coffee, water?” He asks and when Sherlock shakes his head, he brushes off his assistant. “We’re good here, thanks.”

They sit in silence for a second before Sherlock finally speaks. “So, you’re doing well. You’ve been abroad a lot.”

“Well, so?”

Sherlock furrows his brows at him. “Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?”

John raises a brow, tilting his head towards Sherlock’s direction. Sebastian scoffed. “Right, you’re, uh, doing that thing.” He has an amused expression on his face as he points at Sherlock in a playful manner. He turns to John. “We were at Uni together; this guy here had a trick he used to do.” He chuckled again.

Sherlock is unfazed. “It’s not a trick.”

He is ignored. “He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.” He told John.

The consulting detective really started early, did he? John just stares at Sebastian. “Yes, I’ve seen him do it quite a number of times now.”

Sebastian laces his fingers together, resting his elbows on the desk. “Put the wind up everybody, we hated him.”

John doesn’t see, but Sherlock blinks at Sebastian and looks away. He remembers that. How everyone treated him like a freak just because his brain was too advanced for everyone. They seem to be offended by the facts that Sherlock only said aloud. Sherlock always believed that everything he said was true, people only hated him for saying them all out loud.

“We’d come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know who you’d been shagging the previous night.” Sebastian looks at Sherlock’s way. “Well, not everyone hated you, huh? Me and the other blokes hung around with him throughout the years.” He chuckles again. “And there was this hot girl that always came around our dorm that Sherlock here chased after.” He teases him.

John furrows his brows in confusion, but tries to keep a small smile on his face _. Sherlock? With a girl?_  That doesn’t sound right, if he’s being honest. He can’t imagine Sherlock with a woman. When he looks at Sherlock, his smile fades. The first true emotion he sees in Sherlock the whole day, and it was anger. He hides it quite well, but John knew anger when he sees it. John chooses not to mention it right now.

“I simply observed.” Sherlock interjects calmly.

“Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world. You’re quite right. How could you tell?” He asks. Sherlock inhales, opening his mouth as if he is ready to explain, but the other man interrupts him. “Are you going to tell me there’s a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?” He adds, making John grin.

“No, I...”

“Maybe it was the mud on my shoes?” He continues with his joke.

Sherlock just stares at him, deadpan. “I was just chatting with your secretary outside.” He informs. John, ever so confused about everything Sherlock says, glances at him. “She told me.”

Sebastian now felt stupid, but he tries to laugh it off. Sherlock gives him a fake smile, wanting him to just get on with the case. Sebastian clasps his hands together. “I’m glad you could make it over, we’ve had a break-in.”

***

“What was he talking about?”  John asks.

They’ve just left the bank. John still can’t believe how Sherlock didn’t accept the money Sebastian offered to pay him. At least now, Sherlock had John who thinks rationally and believes that they both needed the money. The case is interesting. He can tell that Sherlock is quite focused on it. He took many pictures of the message left in the other office, it looked like random scribbles but it is definitely a language that both of them couldn’t figure out.

They are now on their way to Edward Van Coon’s flat, climbing inside the taxi that Sherlock called out for. The consulting detective just finished explaining to him how he figured out Sebastian’s two trips around the world within a month. John finds it clever how Sherlock only told Sebastian he talked to his secretary to irritate him even though he figured it out because of his watch. Sherlock doesn’t look at him once. “What?”

“Sebastian. He mentioned a girl back in Uni.” John nods. “You seemed pretty annoyed when he did.”

Sherlock glares at him. “Everything Sebastian said or did, disregard all of that. He and I were never friends and certainly will never be.” He spits.

John looks at him. “That… didn’t answer my question.”

“Not my problem. Stop here!” He tells the cabbie driver and climbs out of the cab as soon as he can. It was as if he just wanted to remove himself from that situation. John sighs, wishing that Sherlock would open up to him more. He climbs out after him and is greeted by the London breeze. It is probably a good time to drop the subject. John still sticks to his thoughts; he can’t see anyone be with Sherlock. He’s intelligent and everything, but a girlfriend? John doesn’t even think Sherlock ever said the word ‘girlfriend’ in his life. It made him curious onto whom this woman might be.

Sherlock presses the doorbell twice when no one answers. He looks up at the building, wondering why this Edward Van Coon was taking too long to answer.

“So, what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?” John asks.

Sherlock sighs, locking his eyes with him. “Just moved in.”

“What?”

“Floor above, new label.” He brushes his gloved fingers against the doorbell label.

“Could’ve just replaced it.”

The detective presses the doorbell of the replaced label. “No one ever does that.” He tells John.

They wait for a few moments before a woman speaks into her intercom. “Hello?”

In addition, John watches the Sherlock that he knew melt away and be replaced by a more charming and friendlier voice and expression. “Hi, um, I live in the flat just below you. I don’t think we’ve met.” He softly says with a smile, John widens his eyes at him.

“No. Well, err, I’ve just moved in.” She nervously tells him. Sherlock nods and gives John a knowing look; he just rolls his eyes at the taller man. “Actually, I’ve just locked my keys in my flat.” He grimaced, trying to make himself look like he was embarrassed.

“Do you want me to buzz you in?”

“Yeah, and can I use your balcony?”

Silence.

“What?”

***

When they found the body of Edward Van Coon lying lifeless on his bed, John is quite impressed at how Sherlock figured everything out already; especially the part where he proved that it was a murder and not a suicide just by how the victim was left handed. He even left the Detective Inspector speechless. They are currently walking inside of the restaurant that Sebastian Wilkes was in, having a chat with some of his mates.

“It was a threat, that was what the graffiti meant.” Sherlock interrupts their dinner.

Sebastian looks up at him, surprised at how he managed to figure out where he was. “I’m… kind of in the middle of a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?” He tries his best to sound professional and posh in front of very rich people, but Sherlock sees right through him.

“I don’t think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian.” He fakes an apologetic voice. “One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed.”

The man just stares ahead, not knowing what to say. “What?”

John steps in. “Van Coon” He informs. “The police are at his flat.”

“Killed?” Sebastian repeats in shock.

“Sorry to interfere with everyone’s digestion. Still want to make an appointment? Would maybe 9:00 at Scotland Yard suit?” He sarcastically remarks.

Sebastian reluctantly stands up and motions for them to follow him to the restroom. He washes his hands.

***

When Sebastian explains to both of them how Edward Van Coon worked in Asia so he gave him the Hong Kong accounts, Sherlock was irritated at how Sebastian believes it was a suicide. It clearly was not, and nobody except John believes him. They go home after that encounter after John convinced him that they could continue the investigation tomorrow after a good night rest.

John is cooking some spaghetti for dinner since Sherlock preferred to eat inside and not at a restaurant. Sherlock is currently sat near the table, looking into his microscope for a separate experiment he was working on. Something about blood samples. John thought it best not to interfere, so he doesn’t ask questions.

“So, are we just not going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“The fact that you actually had a girlfriend back in University?” He glances back at him with a grin before turning back to what he was cooking. “So, what was she like? Where is she now?”

“If you could be so kind as to not talk about this rubbish subject, it’s quite boring.” Sherlock sounds frustrated. “I have told you earlier today to disregard everything Sebastian has ever mentioned to you and you still decide to bring it up? After many hours?” He doesn’t even make the effort to look up from his microscope.

“Yeah, but… a girlfriend! Sherlock, I never thought you could actually have one.” He muses with a grin, shaking his head.

Sherlock finally lifts his face from the eyepiece of his microscope. “Never in my unfortunate life have I ever had a…  _girlfriend_.” He says the word with pure disgust written on his face. “Nor will I ever have one. I thought I made it perfectly clear to you on the very first day we’ve met.” He glares and turns to his experiment once again.

John pauses. “What was her name then?”

“Oh, for God’s—there wasn’t a girl or a woman or a boy or a man.” He sags his shoulders. “Now, if you could please just focus on your work and I’ll focus on mine.” He scowls at John.

The subject is dropped immediately after that line was spoken. Sherlock seemed so defensive over what happened during his University days. John is still very much curious about this girl. His flatmate didn’t seem to be overly fond of talking about her. Why? Everyone else that John asks Sherlock about, he always tells him everything. Even gives a little bit too much information. What makes one woman from his past any different?

The next day, John is set to clean his room. Since their guest will be arriving tomorrow morning, he might as well start sorting things out inside the room she’ll be staying in. He is folding his clothes currently. John has a job interview in a few hours as well, so he was trying his best to clean up quickly. Sherlock was quite rubbish at cleaning. One would think that a well-organized man like him would also have an organized home.

Although, all Sherlock did the whole night was sit on his couch thinking. John wondered if he’ll ever find out whom this woman that Sebastian mentioned and why Sherlock was so angry all of a sudden. He couldn’t imagine anyone putting up with a teenage version of Sherlock. Even John could barely put up or keep up with him. He can only imagine how a teenage Sherlock would be a pain. Moreover, he’s not saying this to be offensive, surely Sherlock must know how undeniably punchable his face is numerous of times.

When John left and comes back, Sherlock is still in his couch. He walks in and tosses his jacket onto his own chair when Sherlock talks to him. “I said, ‘could you pass me a pen’?” He looks ahead of him, not glancing at John’s direction.

John looks behind him in case someone else was in the room with Sherlock. Where there was none, he looks back at him in confusion. “What? When?”

“About an hour ago.”

Watson sighs. “Didn’t notice I’d gone out, then?” He grabs a pen and throws it at Sherlock, who catches it at ease. “I went to see about a job at that surgery.”

‘How was it?”

“Great, she’s great.” John says without thinking.

The consulting detective watches his back. “Who?”

John turns, backtracking at what he said. “The job.”

“She?”

He purses his lips. “It.” He corrected.

Sherlock gives him a look, and John feels like the man was easily figuring out everything about him. Maybe he already knows that he’s taken a liking for that nurse at the front desk. “So, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” John repeats.

He nods, pressing his palms together and touching his fingertips against his chin. “Our guest. She arrives tomorrow.” Sherlock recalls.

John was surprised that he remembered. Honestly, he felt like it was irrelevant information. “Yeah, she is. I’m going to be sleeping on the sofa. She’ll be taking my room.” He tells him.

He makes face, squinting his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. Sleep on my bed like a normal person. I’m more likely to spend time here more than you.” He states.

It was a surprise how Sherlock was being very comfortable and considerate of the situation. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, Sherlock.”

“I insist. It’s more difficult to think with you here, yapping around.”  _And there goes his sincerity._

Dr. Watson rolls his eyes at Sherlock. “Genuinely thought you were being nice.”

Seeing the slight upwards curl of the corner of Sherlock’s lips was refreshing. It’s nice to see him act like a human being sometimes. “Have a look.” He flicked his head towards the laptop situated next to him. He informs John how the person who killed Van Coon killed another one, based on the article that shows that the killer can apparently walk through walls. The details of how the second victim died were quite similar to the first one.

They both make their way to Scotland Yard to talk to Detective Inspector Dimmock about the case. The pair tries their best to convince the D.I. that the murders were connected. Sherlock and John are given a chance to scope the flat the second victim lived in. Sherlock is quite determined to find clues. John was barely inside the flat and Sherlock already figured it out. It is quite impressive to deduce how the killer could climb on walls that fast. To Sherlock, it wasn’t a difficult leap, but to John? All he could think of was how idiotic he may look whenever he stands next to Sherlock.

John notices how colder Sherlock was being. He feels like he crossed the line with his questions. It’s not his fault that Sherlock having a woman in his life brought curiosity onto him.

They are moving quite a lot. Next thing John is aware of is that they are at a library, looking through some shelves that may be related to how the victim died. John was quite proud of himself when he is the first one to find the symbols on the walls of the interior of the shelf. They both go home and John stands next to Sherlock, looking through the photos he had.

He clears his throat. “Since our guest is arriving tomorrow, maybe you could tell me about what you know about her so far? Knowing you... you’d deduce her just from a single phone call I’ve made.” John half-smiles.

Sherlock hums in concentration, standing in front of the mirror where the photos were plastered on. “Busy. Not now.” He coldly states, not looking away from the photos.

John pauses. “Sherlock.”

He groans. “What, now? I’m trying to figure out these two were killed.” He bluntly says, giving John a glare.

“I’m only asking you to cooperate when this woman starts living with us.”

“It’s only for two weeks. She’ll be on her way after that. Unless, of course, you ask her to dinner like you normally would. In which case, I’ll be unfortunately seeing her longer than that.”

“Sherlock—”

He sighs loudly through his mouth, closing his eyes briefly. He turns away from the photos to face John, giving up. “Our guest will be around the age twenty-five or twenty-seven. She’s a Forensic Analyst, given how she’s not in the same department as your sister since they never bothered to book the flight together like how each department would normally do before attending an outside-the-country conference. She’s isolated; again, given by the fact she was not included to the group flight booked by each department, in her case, the Forensics Department. Probably because she prefers travelling alone. Air sickness, obviously.” He mutters as John watches him think. “The fact that your sister asked you for a place to stay means our guest prefers a more comfortable place like someone else’s home that her friend trusts, which is her own brother, you. She could have gotten to a hotel or an apartment of her own, but no. This woman would prefer to be inside a home with people in it.” He thinks about it for a bit.

“If she does, wouldn’t that contradict your isolated theory?” John asks.

He looks at John as if he said the most ridiculous thing. “No, don’t be absurd. A person can feel lonely even when they’re not alone. Think about it.” He tells John, who just slowly nods along to what he said. Sherlock turns back to his study.

“Well, none of what you said were told by my sister when she talked about her.” John pointed out.

“What was the name again? Must’ve deleted it.” He mumbles.

John sighs, not knowing what Sherlock meant by deleting it. “Uh... Jocelyn Fray, I think, was it?” He recalls, glancing at Sherlock.

The consulting detective’s hardened face softens, as if something struck him. His lips parts as he stands still for a moment. Then, John witnesses something he never has. Sherlock Holmes is silent.

 _Jocelyn Fray. That name. It shouldn’t. It couldn’t be. Could it? It’s possible for two or more people to have the same name. Unlikely for two people with the same name to be both Forensic Analysts. Unlikely for two or more people with the same name be Forensic Analysts who lives in New York. Unlikely for two people to be Forensic Analysts, have the same name, live in New York and are both isolated. Too many coincidences, coincidences don’t exist. Coincidences are just random patterns we see every day and think too much of. It must be her. It’s the only plausible explanation._ Sherlock thinks to himself.

“Sherlock?”

“No.”

John furrows his brows in bemusement. “No?” He repeats.

“She can’t stay here.” He says, turning on his heel and walking to the door, taking his coat and sliding his arms into the sleeves.

John parts his mouth in surprise. “ _Wh_ —Sherlock, we agreed on this already.” He says, affirming.

“Changed my mind. Find her a flat. Not on Baker Street.” Sherlock says, his tone is angry and annoyed.

John scoffs. “She’s arriving tomorrow! I already texted her the address.” He tells him. John doesn’t understand what changed Sherlock’s mind, but he certainly can’t do this right now. Not when the woman is already on her way to London and will be arriving tomorrow morning. What’s quite confusing is how Sherlock appeared to be angry. That’s not the surprise, Sherlock is always annoyed and bothered, but he was never this angry. _Did he..._

John looks at him, grabbing his arm to stop him from walking out of the flat without him. “Do you... know her?” He asks slowly, looking at Sherlock with a puzzled expression.

Sherlock blinks, pulling his arm away. “No, I don’t.”  _He’s lying_. “Now, can we proceed with this case? I’ve got to meet with someone.” He drops the subject and walks out of their flat, leaving John to sigh to himself and follow him out.

They meet a graffiti artist, creating an artwork in the middle of an alleyway. Sherlock seems to know this person quite well. He didn’t talk to John at all, apart from when he asks Sherlock if he really was going to ask someone for advice. It wasn’t everyday for Sherlock Holmes, genius consulting detective, to ask for help. He could tell that the man was annoyed at him for asking too many questions about his past. Moreover, maybe when he left Dr. Watson in that alleyway, he ran off without him on purpose.

John walks inside the flat after a word at the police station. Sherlock was standing in front of the mirror like before. “You’ve been a while.” He mutters nonchalantly.

 _God, if I could be so allowed punching his face_. John muses. He looks at Sherlock, clenching his fists. “Yeah, well, you know how it is.” He sarcastically smiles at him. “Custody sergeants don’t really like to be hurried, do they?” He continues. “Just formalities. Fingerprints, charge sheet, and I’ve got to be in magistrates’ court on Tuesday.”

“What?” Sherlock is barely paying attention as he focuses on the case.

“Me, Sherlock! In court, on bloody Tuesday. They’re giving me an ASBO!” John frustratingly claims. This man, I could strangle him for being so thick.

“Good, fine.”

John was furious. “You want to tell your little pal he’s welcome to go and own up anytime.” He says, moving on to walking around the living room, agitated. “Is this about the woman that’s going to stay here? You were being so cooperative and considerate of all this, as considerate as you could get, and then you pull back? Why?” He presses.

“It’s none of your concern. I simply would prefer it if she go look for another place.” He tells him calmly.

“You got me to go to the bloody police station because you got angry at me for just saying a name.” He is so frustrated with Sherlock. All John ever did was being a good friend to him and this is how Sherlock would treat him? “Who’s Jocelyn Fray?”

He sees Sherlock visibly clench his jaw. “She’s nobody.” He coldly states. “Now, I’m trying to figure out what this symbol—”

“She doesn’t sound like nobody.” John keeps pressing for information. “Tell me why we can’t have her in our flat and I’ll drop this subject.” He negotiates.

Sherlock sighs, finally regretting leaving John alone at that alley. Now, he seems annoyed at Sherlock. “I told you, she’s nobody.” He says through gritted teeth.

Realization dawned over John. The more he observed at how angry Sherlock was getting, the more he was reminded of the girl that Sebastian mentioned. “Is she—?”

“We’re done here.”

“No, hang on, is she the same girl that Sebastian was referring to?” John asks, a little amused. “ _That_  is a big coincidence.” He lets out a laugh, thinking of how his sister ended up to be Sherlock’s ex’s— _was she?_ —friend.

“That’s a bit of a stretch, John. Of course it’s not.” Sherlock insists, looking away from him. “Don’t be so ridiculous. I’ve never met that woman in my entire life.” He says.

“Alright then, if that’s all then I don’t see a problem to her staying here with us.” John was quite amused at how Sherlock was behaving. He feels victorious when Sherlock could think of no comeback to his words. He only goes back to the case, where he makes John go to Scotland Yard and ask about journalist while Sherlock goes to Van Coon’s personal assistant. Maybe because he couldn’t stand to be anywhere near John right after what happened.

***

Sherlock couldn’t stop his mind from racing faster than he could even comprehend. He trains himself to keep up but of course, his mind has, well, a mind of its own.

 _“Sherlock.”_  He hears a voice inside his head.

He was currently in the restroom of the bank, just finished with talking to Edward Van Coon’s assistant where he rearranged Van Coon’s receipts in order. He figured out that Van Coon stooped to buy some lunch at some local place. “Oh, not now.” Sherlock whispers to himself, turning on his heel and suddenly, he was in his head. He sees Mycroft sitting on his desk. “What do you want?”

“Anxious, brother mine?” Mycroft pours some tea into a cup.

Sherlock sighs. “Quite the opposite. I’ve figured out what Van Coon’s been doing just by arrange—”

“You’re well aware that I am not referring to the case you’re currently on.” He offers him that fake smile Sherlock was always so used to. “Jocelyn Fray. You’ve locked her away somewhere, correct?”

“I deleted her.”

Mycroft lets out a chuckle. “Lying to yourself now, as well? I still accept it when it is to Dr. Watson.” He laughs incredulously. “We both know that’s not quite true.” He says, picking up his tea and sipping from the rim. Sherlock stays silent. “So, where is she now?”

“Aeroplane. Took off from John F. Kennedy International Airport. Eleven hours away due to delay—”

“I meant, in your mind palace.” His Mycroft consciousness clarifies. “I’m well aware that you’ve researched when her flight will begin and end. I’m you.”

Sherlock slowly tilts his chin up in realization. “If you’re me, then you know where she is.” He cleverly shots back.

Mycroft has that grin on his face, but it slowly melts into a brotherly one. Out of character for the real Mycroft, but it was what Sherlock needed sometimes. “Pay her a visit; I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

Sherlock scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I need to go back, I’ve got something for the case.” He tells Mycroft as if he was the real one and not just a creation by his magnificent mind, waves him off and he is back inside the restroom.

***

He bumps into John, explaining to him everything that he did. He never mentions that conversation he had with Mycroft – well, himself – because it may be too early to discuss his mind palace with John. He might think he’s insane. John redirects him to a shop across the street, claiming that Lukis, the journalist, wrote the address on the diary he retrieved from Scotland Yard. They enter a shop called ‘Lucky Cat’ and John immediately scopes the area. Sherlock looks around, but keeps getting distracted by a soft voice in his head. He tries his best not to grimace and keeps a straight face, pushing back the voice in his mind. The shop owner is trying to sell a lucky cat to John, also claiming that his wife might like it. John just politely smiles and picks up a cup from a random tray. He turns the cup over and lets out a slow breath upon seeing the same cipher that they found earlier.

He calls Sherlock over and they quietly discuss among themselves. They both leave the shop quite discreetly and Sherlock tells John that it’s an ancient number system called ‘Hangzhou’. The ciphers were numbers and Sherlock tries his best to get his mind off a certain woman by figuring out what the numbers meant. They both learned the meaning of each symbol, a number one and number fifteen.

The pair decides to sit at a restaurant, talking amongst themselves. John was the only one who ordered, Sherlock always insists how digestion interferes with his thinking. Sherlock seems focused, too focused. John listens to him carefully, still thinking about what they discussed earlier. He still could not believe that the girl from Sherlock’s past is the same woman who’ll be staying with them. It’s a huge coincidence. It’s too big of a coincidence, John thinks to himself. How could that even happen?

Sherlock informs him that what connects them both was how they both brought a suitcase. He puts pieces together and tells John about how Van Coon was making easy money, hinting that he was a smuggler. John was still easily impressed by his intellectual skills. He might never meet anyone else as clever as Sherlock. He continues with his deduction, how the killer threatens both the executive and journalist because they may have stolen something and the killer did not know which one of them did.

Then, when Sherlock looks outside of the window, he sees a bag full of papers. He stands up abruptly and walks out of the restaurant. John just rolls his eyes and trails after him.

***

“Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse and out of breath.

“Somebody?” John asks, taking in his disheveled appearance.

Sherlock nods. “Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her.” He looks away from John and was gasping for air quietly.

“Uh... how exactly?” John asks, confused as to why he was acting this way.

Sherlock crouches down on the ground, retrieving a small piece of paper, unfolding it and reads the label. National Antiquities Museum. ‘We can start with this.” He hoarsely says.

“You’ve gone all croaky, are you getting a cold or something?” He asks as they start to walk down the street together.

To which Sherlock responds with a cough. “I’m fine.”

***

They did many things following that trip to the museum. Talking to the girl’s co-worker and how she just resigned all of a sudden. They looked for many clue and meaning for different ciphers they found. Soo Lin Yao was another one of the targets and they still haven’t found her. That night, John says that he found a wall full of ciphers and takes Sherlock to it. When they arrive to the wall, it was blank. Someone repainted over it. John was at loss of words.

“Somebody doesn’t want me to see it.” Sherlock realizes and all of a sudden grabs the sides of John’s head, to his surprise.

“Sherlock, what are you—”

“Shh! John, concentrate.” He interrupts. “I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

John, puzzled, just squints at Sherlock in the dark. “What? Why?” He questions. ‘Why? What are you doing?” He looks at him as the man grabs his arms next and starts to spin with him in an average speed.

“I need you to maximize your visual memory.” He tells John as if it is the most normal thing to say. “Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?” He asks while John stares at him as if he grew a second head.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock doesn’t believe him. “Can you remember it?”

“Yes, definitely.” He assures.

“Can you remember the pattern?”

“Yes.”

“How much can you remember?” They were still spinning in circles.

“Look, don’t worry!”

“Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate.” Sherlock argues.

“Yeah, but don’t worry, I’ll remember all of it.”

Sherlock raises his brows at him, still not convinced. “Really?”

John sighed. “Yeah. Well, at least I would if I could get to my pockets. I took a photograph.” He deadpanned and stops spinning with Sherlock by pulling away quite forcibly, reaching for his phone and unlocking it.

The consulting detective stares at him, quite impressed and a bit surprised. John shows him the picture of different symbols. Sherlock purses his lips, a bit embarrassed by his actions but he tries not to show it. John just looks away and thinks to himself, how could anyone put up with him?

They go home and John is snoozing on the desk. Sherlock was still wide-awake, probably because of nicotine patches. John starts with work tomorrow and even has to settle their guest in. He should be sleeping, yet Sherlock continues to talk as if they have all the time in the world. Sherlock finally decides to go back to the museum, all while John was very exhausted and was in need of sleep.

The detective’s observational skills are still on point. He notices that two pots were shining instead of one from the last time they came to the museum.

Hours later, they meet Soo Lin Yao, who confirms that someone is coming for her. To kill her, she means. She tells them the story of how she became a smuggler for when she was young, since her family was very poor. She shows the mark on her heel, and Sherlock instant recognizes it, a syndicate from China. A syndicate, which Soo Lin Yao refers as the Black Lotus. However, someone still came to look for her. She says that someone came to her flat and asked for help for something that was stolen, and she refused. She reveals that the person is her brother.

Then, when asked to decipher the symbols, all the lights turned off. She says that her brother has found him and Sherlock sprints to action.

They both try to protect the woman in the museum. Whoever the shooter was, it was her brother and Soo Lin Yao made it very clear that he was here to kill her. It is inexplicable what John felt when he heard the gunshot. He wasn’t sure if it was for Sherlock or Soo Lin Yao. He runs to where he left her and sees how the girl lay lifeless on the table with a folded paper shaped as a flower on her palm.

***

Sherlock and John have gone out of their way to convince the D.I. that there is someone who is after them. John was quite persistent, very affected by a young girl’s death that happened only earlier.

John doesn’t know how Sherlock managed to convince Molly into rolling out the bodies again by his request, only assuming that it had something to do with how she obviously liked him. That brings back the topic of Jocelyn Fray and who she is in Sherlock’s life. Tomorrow, he’ll be meeting her and he wonders how Sherlock will react.

John and Sherlock arrived back in the flat and the detective just continues to discuss the case. John doesn’t want to be reminded of the young girl who lost her life tonight, but he was very strong and moved on. He knew that she was lovely and it was a shame that she had to pass away like that. Sherlock figures out that the girl’s brother reached out to her because the item stolen is an antique object. He then proceeds to browse through the internet about things in the market, pointing out the dates and prices of the objects that arrive from China.

While browsing through antique items, John glances at Sherlock’s concentrated face. “She’s still staying with us, you know?” With what happened to Soo Lin Yao tonight only made John feel anxious to even let the woman they will meet tomorrow leave Baker Street. Sherlock doesn’t say anything and continues to type and scroll down, which was unusual since he always has something to say to anything. “Be honest with me, do you really not know her?”

Sherlock stops typing, leaning back on his chair. “If she is who I think she is, then I used to. She moved away. She’s not a good person, John. If I were you, I wouldn’t let her inside of this flat.”

John finally confirms that Sherlock knows her. “Why not? Is she a spy or something?” He jokes. How can a person like Sherlock be able to differentiate a good person and a bad one? He can’t even comprehend happiness on people’s faces. He isn’t an emotional human being, unlike John.

The detective only sighs. “Can we focus on this?  _This_  is more important.” He gestures towards his computer, shifting in his seat and typed away. John just purses his lips and drops the subject. Mrs. Hudson comes up and interrupts their conversation, informing them of men carrying crates of books outside. Whoever this Jocelyn Fray was, Sherlock probably disliked them enough not to welcome them inside his flat. But then again, who would Sherlock welcome inside his home?


	2. The Flat

They stay up all night trying to match each book that belongs to Van Coon and Lukis. They found nothing, no progress and there were piles of books everywhere. John checks the time and realizes that it’s his morning shift at that Surgeon place. He got there on time, but slowly started to fall asleep. When Sarah, the woman who hired him, informs him that she checked up on more than five patients of his, he soon felt guilty for feeling exhausted and sleep-deprived. He doesn’t exactly know how to explain his situation with his flatmate. She seems pretty nice and lovely, which is why he smoothly asks her out tonight with a smile on his face.

Around eight in the morning, their guest arrives. A brunette young woman gets out of her taxi the same time John comes walking home. He immediately knows it’s her since she’s currently taking her luggage out of the cab. John is delighted to see her as he walks up to her, still not seeing her face. “Hi, you must be Jocelyn.” He helps her with her things and she just finally looks up at him. John almost starts to stammer, his smile fading a bit. She’s quite beautiful and petite, and she offers the kindest smile John has ever seen on someone.

She grins. “And you must be Doctor Watson.” She sticks her hand out, the taxi drives away behind her. She had a British accent too, so she used to live here.

“John, please.” He insists and shakes her hand, very delighted to meet her. She.... doesn’t seem to be anything Sherlock described so maybe it was a different woman. She can’t possibly be the horrible person that Sherlock depicted. If she was, he found it hard to believe.

Jocelyn smiles. “I’ve heard a lot about you, your sister is very chatty.” She teases.

“I’m well aware.” He just instantly feels comfortable around her, she gives off a comforting aura. The girl is practically radiating with beauty and ease without even trying.

She looks around the streets for a second. “God, I forgot how cold London could be, it’s been so long since I’ve been here.”

“Come on, I’ll show you the flat.” He says and leads her to the front door while carrying her blue suitcase.

Jocelyn opens the door for both of them and was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who has a warm smile on her face. “Hello, dear. Are you the one to be staying with the boys?”

She just lets out a breathy laugh. “Yes, only for a short while.” She reassures.

Mrs. Hudson just waves her off. “Oh, don’t be passive, dear. Stay as long as you like, I’m sure the boys won’t mind.”

Jocelyn just smiles, finding it endearing that she calls them boys even though they’re grown men. “Thank you. I take it that you’re the one who owns the building?”

She nods with a grin and motions for them to go upstairs while she proceeds to go to her café. John leads her upstairs and opens the door, cringing upon seeing crates of books. “Oh, God.” He nervously laughed. “Uh, obviously I can clean these up—”

The woman interrupts. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I don’t mind. As long as I can crash here for the next few weeks.” She chuckles, shrugging off her coat. “What’s with all the books, then?” She hangs her coat on the rack as she stepped inside, adjusting the hem of her dress by tugging it down.

John looks around in the room, a little confused since Sherlock should be here looking through the books. “Uh, my flatmate. Doing a bit of reading.”

“He’s into books?”

“Yes, well, these aren’t his. It’s for a case he’s solving.”

Jocelyn smiled. “Your roommate is a detective?” She asks, excitement in her voice.

John was fully convinced that this is not the same woman Sherlock was talking about. “Yeah, it’s a bit complicated.” He said.

“John! I need to get some air, we’re going out tonight...” Sherlock emerges from the hallway to his room and catches sight of the pair. Jocelyn turns her head to meet John’s flatmate, grinning a bit. When she locks eyes with him, her smile slowly fades.

_Then, it happened._

Sherlock sees the woman and freezes. He gasps and looks around in the room. It was blank, with white walls and… nothingness. It was just him. “John!” He yells out, not wanting to be here.

 _“Sherlock.”_  He hears a familiar small voice from behind him and he turns around to see. Suddenly, he was in the middle of a room. His living room, back in Musgrave Hall. However, no, it wasn’t his living room, it was _their_ living room. In a flat that his parents bought for him near the University he briefly attended. The place where he would stay when his roommate would party in his dorm and he’d prefer peace and quiet. It was his –  _theirs?_

“You took your time.” He hears a voice behind him again, and when he finally turns, he meets with the face he pushed back into his head. She was sat on the table, her legs dangles in the air. Her hair was still the vibrant blue. Feather earrings framed the sides of her face and she wore those ridiculous floral dresses with her knee-high brown boots. It’s what she wore that day, the last time he saw her.

“You.” He had an accusing tone. “Why now?” He clenches his fists.

His Jocelyn consciousness just sweetly smiles at him, a genuine smile that he tried so hard to forget. He did, that’s why he gulps at the sight of it. “I think I should be the one asking that question.” She gets off the table and slowly makes her way to Sherlock. “You never visit me anymore. Why is that?”

Sherlock scowls at her. “I locked you away.”

“Yes, well, you did use to have a little peek just to see me again.” She smiles while shrugging, her tone was playful.

His cold expression remains. “I don’t have time for this.” He rolls his eyes.

She frowns. “I’m only asking why you never visited anymore. Is it that bad?” She asks, lacing her fingers behind her back. “Also, do you like my new get up? I lost the ridiculous blue hair, as you always described it.” She laughs. “Still dress the same, though. Were you expecting me to show up in my doctor outfit?” She jokes and circles around the small flat.

Sherlock observes the way she moves. It is just like the way he remembers, and when he realizes that fact, he sighs and closes his eyes. “How are you here? I locked you away so I wouldn’t be able to access you.”

“Well, maybe something triggered it.” She picks up a book from the top of the fireplace. “Ooh, remember this one? Pride and Prejudice. You used to hate Mr. Darcy.” She laughs and flips through the book, the sound of pages touching against one another fills Sherlock’s ears.

 _Triggered it, of course. Seeing her again must have triggered his brain_. He doesn’t speak, just looking around the place as well. It is as if he could already smell those candles she always brought back to his flat. The different spices she would use to cook, or compete with him while cooking. Sherlock shakes off all those ridiculous memories and turns to her when she speaks again. “I missed you, you know.” She says.

Sherlock just rolls his eyes again, sighing in a frustrated way through his mouth. “You don’t, actually. Because you’re me. You’re a figment of my imagination. You’re just saying that to… comfort me, for some reason.” It’s what she always does.

She smiles. “Well, since I’m you, you’re wishing that I miss you. And I do. And you miss me.” His Jocelyn consciousness tilted her head. “If that made sense—”

He laughs incredulously. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh?” She nears him again, hand slipping from the marble fireplace. “I thought you said I was you.”

He clenches his jaw. She  _really_  knows how to get under his skin. Then again, she was just a representation of how he sees her. It’s still Sherlock. “I don’t miss you. Get out of my head.”

She shakes her head. “Tell me why you stopped visiting.”

“You know perfectly well why I stopped visiting.” He encounters, looking down at her since she was much shorter than he was. “Too dangerous to remember—”

“Too precious to forget.” She finishes with a grin. “Ooh, Mr. Holmes.” She says, reaching up to brush her fingers against the soft fabric of his coat, it makes his body stiffen. “Looks good on you.”

“The coat?”

“Sentiment.”

He scoffs, moving away from her arms. “You should probably go back out there. Doctor Watson might assume you’re going into shock.” She chuckles, lacing her fingers together. “It’s been two seconds since you saw me. Well, _her_. But me.” She teases. “Impressive what your mind can do—”

“I’m not in shock.” He interjects quickly, looking at her smile. He hates the way she smiles. He hates her ridiculous hair color. The way she dresses. The way she laughs. The way she walks. He hates everything about it. About her. Everything about her,  _it’s hateful_.

She only looks at him with that soft expression on her face. “I’ll see you soon.”

 _I doubt it._  He thinks to himself.

“We’re going out tonight?” John asks Sherlock while he only stares at the woman in front of him. “I’ve got a date with Sarah.” He tells him. Doctor Watson looks at Sherlock for a moment. “Uh, Sherlock?” He calls out.

The detective snaps out of his three-second daze and locked eyes with Jocelyn. She shifts in her place as she observes how he looked _. Oh, he changed_. He looks more grown up, yet still the same. His whole aura was familiar, but colder. Jocelyn didn’t know what to say, there are no words upon seeing him again.

“Sherlock,” she says under her breath, taking in his appearance.

He tries to compose himself. “You...” The word slowly leaves his mouth, swallowing a bit and was followed by several blinks. “—changed your hair.” He points out, looking at the curly brown locks that framed her face. He finds it oddly comforting how John could see Jocelyn as well. It never really ended well when Sherlock couldn’t tell the difference between what was real or not.

His comment made her subconsciously touch the ends of her hair before chuckling. “Yeah. I, uh, lost the ridiculous blue hair, as you described it.” She softly says. God, she just said the same words as his consciousness did. He tries not to focus on that fact and just stands still in front of her, wanting to show her that he’s been doing quite well. “Wow, I haven’t seen you since graduation, was it? Six years?”

“Eight.” He corrects, a blank expression on his face.

“Eight...” she trails off.  _So, he really did become a detective as he hoped he would be._  She muses.

John looks at him. The years correspond with what Sebastian said. She is the girl that he referred to, and the same woman that Sherlock described as  _‘not a good person’_. He stays quiet, watching the scene unfold before him. Sherlock looks like he has no idea how to act, yet manages to keep the cold look on his face. He looks away from her and turns to John. “I’m going to St. Barts to continue my… experiment.” He was stammering, John never thought he’d witness him stumbling over his own words. He watches him with wonder, thinking about what happened between the two while being at Uni together. “Your date, take her here—” He fishes out a strip of paper from his pocket. “Instead of the cinema.”

John takes the paper, wondering how Sherlock figured out he was taking her to watch a movie. “How did you—”

“They’re here for one night only.”

“I don’t come to you for dating advice,” He scoffs at him, but nonetheless, slides the paper into his back pocket.

Jocelyn presses her lips together at John’s words, glancing at the tall curly haired man. “It’s great to see you, Sherlock.” She softly says, frowning when he says nothing and just makes his way down outside. She jumps slightly when the door downstairs slams shut. Jocelyn looks at John with worry. “Sherlock Holmes is your roommate?”

“Flatmate.” He corrects. “And yes, he is. Didn’t Harry tell you?” He asks, knowing perfectly well that his sister never did.

“No, I don’t think she knew.” Her tone is all gloomy now. “Since he’s your flatmate, is it really okay that I stay here? Did he know that it was me?” She slowly asks John, cautious with her words.

The whole situation is so confusing. They both talked about each other like there was some kind of dark past that happened between them. Was there? “He did. He’s quite fine with it.” He reluctantly says, recalling the words Sherlock used yesterday.

Jocelyn notices him hesitating and sighs, her eyes closing briefly. “I don’t think I should stay here, John—”

“No, hang on. Why not? What happened between you and Sherlock?” He asks curiously, not wanting to beat around the bushes anymore.

She is very concerned, still overwhelmed by how she just saw someone she never thought would see ever again.

\--

“Can I get two cappuccinos, please? Extra cinnamon on both.” A nineteen-year-old Jocelyn spoke to the woman behind the counter. Her bright blue hair was tied into a bun, typical but that was how she usually does her hair. It was Saturday and she was running late for her rehearsals. She had an upcoming recital in a week and she was really ruining it by staying up all night watching old films. She glances at her watch, nervously tapping her fingers on her thigh anxiously. When the lady finished with the drinks, she paid and thanked her before turning around, ready to run out. She bumped into someone and almost spills the coffee on them. Thankfully, they didn’t and Jocelyn regained her balance. “I am so sorry.” She said with a small laugh and looks up at the man. He had blue eyes and curly brown hair. She expected him to say it was fine, but instead, he just sighed and walked past her to go next with ordering since he was in queue. She swallowed, a little embarrassed as she walked out of the coffee shop and started to walk to campus. She was barely around the campus, never liked her roommate that much. She was too loud and Jocelyn just wanted a place where she can think and play music at peace.

It took her fifteen minutes to arrive at the campus. Her music teacher was already pulling her into his office. “You’re late.”

She gave him an apologetic look. “I’m very sorry, I lost track of the time.” She was just finishing her first coffee and put her second one on the table, sitting down on the chair in front of his desk. “What was it you’re going to tell me?”

He watched her for a moment before clasping his hands together. “Ah, yes. There’s a new student coming to our school today.”

She laughed. “A new student? It’s the fifth to the last month before finals. That’s not a very wise decision.” She finished her coffee and grabbed her second one.

He only smiled at her. “I’m afraid this student is very... peculiar. Her parents came to us yesterday and discussed all her limits and well, uniqueness.” He told her. “They say that she might take a few days before she comes to regular classes.”

Jocelyn nodded. “Alright, what’s this have to do with me?”

“This new student will be joining the recital in a week, I need you to partner up with her.” He said.

She then sits upright, widening her eyes at him. “What?” She asked. “But I’ve been practicing for months now and it’ll be a miracle for her to learn all of that in a week.” She frowned. “And... not to be self-centered or anything, but it’s my performance. This is my shot at getting into a good music school.” She explained. “I can’t have anything to ruin that, please, Mr. Carlyle.” She pleaded.

He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Until then, maybe try to get to know this student more. She’s probably in the studio now. Miss Brown already oriented her.” He mentioned. Miss Brown would be Hannah, the head of the music club in the campus. She was in Jocelyn’s Chemistry class. They never talked but Hannah was quite nice.

“Have you met her?” She was slightly concerned that maybe this girl will be slightly rude.

“No, Miss Brown did all the talking mostly this morning. I haven’t even seen her. Can’t even recall her name.” He laughed a bit. “Give it a try, Miss Fray. I’ll try to do what I can about your solo performance.” He said.

She just nodded, standing up and gathering her things before leaving the office. She walked to the other side of the building to the music studio where bands would practice. At this hour, she would have the whole studio to herself since it was Saturday and she didn’t have classes during weekends, unlike the other students that used the studio as well.

Jocelyn went inside the music room, humming the notes to the piece she composed. She closed the door behind her and sipped her coffee again, noticing a boy at the other side of the room. He had his back towards her, cleaning the bow of a violin with a cloth.

She looked around the room and saw that it was only him in it so she approached him. “Uh, hello. Are you in the right room?” She asked.

The person stopped cleaning and turned around. She immediately recognized him as the boy she almost spilled coffee on earlier in the coffee shop. Her face heated up at the thought as the person looked her up and down before sighing. “Room seventeen of the main building. I don’t think I got it wrong.” He muttered.

She paused for a second. “You’re the new student?”

He curtly nodded and turned back to cleaning his bow. He didn’t say anything else.

Jocelyn chuckled. “I thought you were a girl. Mr. Carlyle referred to you as a ‘she’.” She brought up as she crossed her legs while taking a step forward. He didn’t say anything again. She sighed. “Well, I’m Jocelyn. Mr. Carlyle told me that I’d be guiding you? He—”

“You don’t want this.” He stated.

She tilted her head, shoulders dropping. “Excuse me?” She asked quietly, confused.

The boy turned to her. “From your posture, you’re usually upright and stood straight. Right now, you’re slouching. This means that you’re not really fond of doing a duet with me.”

Jocelyn blinked at him. “My.... posture?”

He ignored her words. “The shakiness of your hands hints that you’ve been practicing day and night with your piano solo, which is very odd since we’re at a campus and everyone is required to have a dorm. Either your roommate is very forgiving or you have another flat outside of the campus. Probably the latter, university roommates are quite annoying.” He pointed out.

Jocelyn was puzzled. “How—”

“Observation.” He simply said, tilting his chin up, proud of himself.

She just lets out a scoff mixed with a laugh, still shocked. “Well, that was...” she let out a breath. “That was something else.” She chuckled. “You got all of that by looking at me?”

“Of course.”

Jocelyn bit her lip and looked down at her shoes. “Anything else to add?” She asked with a smile, looking at him.

He looked surprised, but masked it by looking away from her. “There’s a single strand of hair on your leggings,” he said, making her look down at her leg. “Means you have a cat.”

“How do you know that it’s not a dog?” She challenged.

“Statistically, how rare are ginger dogs in Britain?” The boy sighed, still holding the violin bow in his hand.

“What if I dyed my dog?” Jocelyn chuckled.

“Then I could report you for animal abuse.” He finished with a sarcastic smile, crinkles forming by his eyes.

His words made Jocelyn laugh, enjoying his company. To his surprise, she was comfortable with him. He imagined her to be repulsed and accuse him of being a stalker. Instead, she just laughed along to what he said.

Her laughter died down, still looking at him with a grin. “Yes, I do have a ginger cat.”

“Named Bonnie.”

“Named Sunny, how are you getting all these?”

He disregarded her question, moving on with more information about her. “Your hair is bright blue, meaning that you like being unique. Although you dislike too much attention, you don’t mind when you receive it. Your clumsiness from our first encounter tells me that you’re not really good with people, but you’re quite popular around the campus.”

“How can you tell?”

“You’re the person the Club Coordinator asked to orient me. He could have asked the Club President, yet he chose you. Also because on the way here, people greeted you. Nobody does that to an outsider, so popular it is.” He answered. Before she could ask how he knew she was greeted by a bunch of people, he answered. “You go inside the room breathing in, probably because you wasted your air from saying hello to everyone. Dull.”

Jocelyn just looked up at him with amazement. “Wow, that was very observant of you. Incredible.” She laughed. “Who are you?”

He paused, taking in her compliment and not knowing what to say back to her. Tell her she’s incredible as well? For what? He just blinked at her. “Sherlock Holmes.” He stretched his hand to shake hers. She did and just watched him in amazement.

“I’m Jocelyn.” She smiled. “Jocelyn Fray.”

Sherlock’s lips parted, her name etched itself into his mind like a plaque. “Jocelyn.” He muttered back, her soft hand is small inside his.

“Are you a psychic or something?”

“I simply deduce.”

“Like a detective?”

He considered it. “Possibly.” He said before letting go of her hand.

She looked over at the violin inside the case. “So, how did you figure out that I played the piano? It’s not even out yet.” She gestured to the cabinet where the keyboard was neatly tucked in.

He looked around in the room. “Your hands, quite curled up than normal. The average person has their fingers curled when they relax it, yours are above average. No other way to get that unless you’re a pianist or a flute player. Your breathing pattern doesn’t really say flute player so last choice, pianist.”

“You’re quite right again,” she said, observing her hands. “Amazing .”

Sherlock hesitated. “You really think so?”

“Yeah, of course! How could I not.” She laughed, very amused by him. “Come on, let’s get started.” She had a feeling that she won’t regret working with him.

Sherlock watched her gather the keyboard from the cabinet and set it up by herself, opening her bag to take her compositions out. She gave him a copy by putting one on the table in front of him. He took his violin out of its casing and settled it between the space of his shoulder and chin. Without her telling him to, he started to play a solemn piece that he composed by him.

\--

“It’s alright if I’m not allowed to stay here,” she sheepishly tells John, already reaching over for her coat.

John just watches her scramble around. “Now, hold on, why not?”

She glances at the door that Sherlock walked out of. “I know that he doesn’t want me here.”

“He’s not the only owner of the flat.” John offers a smile.

Jocelyn is still hesitant. “I don’t know, John.” Her voice is small and quiet, looking down at the floor.

So many thoughts are already flooding her mind. Everything from her past is coming back. Sherlock, his words, Mycroft—  _Oh, God. Mycroft_. She couldn’t even begin to wrap her head around everything. She just saw Sherlock again, after eight years of nothing. However, right now, all she could think of is how Sherlock has been doing. How he’s been feeling and if he’s still the same Sherlock she met all those years ago.

Doctor Watson just sighs. “All hotels are pretty far from the conference place. It’d be best if you just stay here. I mean, I already cleaned up my room for you.” He persuades her with a smile. “Stay, I’m sure Sherlock won’t mind. He’s like that. He probably won’t even notice.”

He won’t notice? But Sherlock notices  _everything_. She is hesitating.

John can see it. “Jocelyn, whatever happened between you and Sherlock, I can assure you that he already has forgotten about it. It’s been years, I doubt that he still holds on.” He assures. “Come on up, let me show you the room.”

She hopes that John is right as she slowly nods, pursing her lips while she carries her luggage and follows John to the room upstairs. She still feels as though she might regret this.

Sherlock is at St. Barts, taking a break from the antiquities case and just wants to clear his head. He can’t do this right now, his heart is pounding very fast when he enters the building. He’s greeted by Molly’s friendly and familiar face, whose smile fades upon seeing Sherlock’s pale face. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” He coughs. “I need a syringe.”

Molly gives him a look, suspicious. “A... syringe?”

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes in frustration. “No, Molly, I’m not going to relapse. I just need a syringe for this experiment I’m working on.” He explains and starts walking to her lab to find one.

“Wait, Sherlock—” she follows after him, short and petite right behind him.

He rummages through the shelves and finds a syringe still inside a plastic, relief flooding through him as he slides it inside his pocket. He hesitates, but takes another syringe as well _. She’s back. It really was her_. He can’t deal with this. Not right now.

Molly just watches him go through the drawers, giving him permission even though he doesn’t officially works here. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I need to figure out what these symbols mean,” he goes to take his phone out from his pockets, but feels nothing in them. He looks for it in his coat and mentally curses. “I must have left my phone in Baker Street.”

It was unusual for Sherlock to forget important objects, not that unusual if it’s for things that seem irrelevant to him. So, Molly just observes him. “What’s going on?”

“A young girl died at a museum and some cult is after something that went missing—” He’s talking excessively fast that Molly has to put her hand up and nervously laughs.

“No, Sherlock, I meant with you. What’s going on with you? You look unwell.” She is careful with her words; they leave her mouth in a shaky manner. She is still nervous around the man since he is very much admired by her.

“Is that not normal? In my context?” He asks, unamused.

“Yeah, but… you’re not this anxious.”

He scoffs, walking past her while shoving his hands into his coat pockets, feeling the syringes inside the plastic. He leaves without another word and Molly just disappointedly walks back into her lab. She sighs when she sees how there were two syringes less inside her drawers.

***

Jocelyn walks in front of the mirror, staring at the pictures that are hung up. John is currently making tea for them. Mrs. Hudson just left the room a few minutes ago, but she’ll be joining them shortly. She said that she’s going to bring biscuits in to make their guest more comfortable.

John has been meaning to ask her about how she knew Sherlock, but he doesn’t want to pry. She only just got here; it would be awful to just scare her away all of a sudden. “You can have a seat, if you’d like.” He offers, gesturing towards Sherlock’s chair.

She just smiles again, politely shaking her head. “No, it’s fine.” She says, looking back at the photos. “What are these?”

John walks over, handing her a cup of tea, for which she thanks him. “Oh, it’s Sherlock’s case. He’s trying to figure out what they mean.” He nods, looking at the yellow symbols.

She lifts her hand delicately and touches the symbols, John watches her every move. “Ancient Chinese symbols. Hangzhou.” She mutters under her breath.

John glances at her, furrowing his brows. “That’s... correct. How did you know that?” He wonders. It took both John and Sherlock a few days to understand it and here’s Jocelyn, knowing what it is after a few minutes of having a look.

She just lifts her shoulder up for a shrug. “Used to read books about Asia when I was a child. Kind of remember a few things by accident.” She says, her tone was kind and just very comforting,

He chuckles. “It took me and Sherlock days to figure it out, and we haven’t even cracked it yet.” He tells her.

“Crack it? It’s a cipher?” She asks.

“Yes, it’s what he refers it as.”

She thinks to herself. “One and fifteen.” She mumbles. “I haven’t the faintest.” Jocelyn laughs quietly. “Is this what you and… Sherlock do?”

John turns to sit on his chair. “I just moved in with him two months ago, actually. It’s mostly him doing the investigating thing. I just trail after him. He’s a handful.” He sighs, sipping his cuppa.

She smiles. “I bet.” Jocelyn can only imagine how Sherlock can be as a flatmate. It’s not that she pities John, it’s just that Sherlock can be quite difficult to handle.

He wants to ask how she would know, or anything about them. Sherlock never struck him as someone who’d be capable of a relationship, but he didn’t know him during his University days. For all John knows, Sherlock could be a very different person in the past and this woman in front of him could know all about it. Would it be too much to ask on the first day of her being here? She’ll only be here for two weeks, after all. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to ask. He clears his throat. “Fancy some lunch at Angelo’s? It’s just right down the street from here.” He tells her.

She thinks about it and grins, nodding. “Would love some.”

They both made their way to Angelo’s, seeing Mrs. Hudson on the way up to give them cookies, but John tells her that they’ll be having lunch together down the street. She just smiles at Jocelyn and warmly gives her a quick hug on the way out. Jocelyn chuckles when they step outside. “Mrs. Hudson is quite lovely, I don’t think I’ve met a landlady that nice.” She jokes, walking down the street next to him. She tightly wraps her coat around herself because of the cold, watching a cloud of mist form whenever she exhales.

Doctor Watson slips his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Yes, well, Sherlock was the one who found her. We even got a discount for the flat because he helped her with her husband once.”

“Helped her with her husband how?”

He grits his teeth, cringing and awkwardly lets out a laugh. “By ensuring his execution in Florida, apparently.” He says, looking at her.

Jocelyn gives him a look before she laughs and shakes her head in disbelief. John was expecting her to be put off at least, but she somehow had a dark humor like Sherlock. It is as if the consulting detective and the forensic analyst had so many differences yet some things in common. “Sounds oddly like him.”

“So you’re a Forensic Analyst, then?” He starts a small talk with her while they walk.

She nods, still feeling a bit cold from the weather. “Yes, I work for NYPD.” She says with high regards to herself. It isn’t awful to feel proud of yourself at all. “I think that I might relocate here, though. If I get accepted.” She sighs.

“You’ll work for Scotland Yard?”

She shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe from another part in London. Until then, my workplace is still with the New York Police Department.” She says, and John actually finds himself wishing that she does end up staying here. Sherlock must look good with someone by his arm.

He takes note of her words and opens the door for her when they reach the restaurant. They take a seat and Angelo comes greeting them, to which John smiles in return. “John, how’s Sherlock? Haven’t seen you two in a while.” He glances at Jocelyn. “And who’s this?”

He nods in agreement. He hasn’t come down here since around the day he and Sherlock met. “This is Jocelyn, a friend. Can you get me anything from the menu? And she’ll have...” he trails off, looking at her to let her continue.

She quickly scans the menu and just picks something at random. “Some chicken stew would be nice, thank you.” She softly says, looking up at him.

Angelo watches them both and then back to John. “Did you and Sherlock—”

John sighs. “Sherlock is not my boyfriend, I don’t understand why people don’t seem to understand that.” He grumbles, Angelo just nods along and leaves awkwardly. Jocelyn lets out a laugh when the owner of the restaurant was out of sight to prepare their food. “Do people really assume you and Sherlock are together?”

“I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re wondering.” John chuckles along.

She holds her hands up in defense. “By all means, be whatever you’d like. Nothing against it. Sherlock just doesn’t seem the type to... you know.”

Watson raises a brow. “Be with a man?”

“Be with someone.” She corrects, clearing up the fact that she isn’t trying to be offensive.

John looks at her for a second. “Really?” He asks, shifting in his seat to turn his body towards her. “So... you’re not his ex-girlfriend, then?” He asks without thinking and almost would like to take it back.

Jocelyn parts her lips. The fact that she has to think about it only proves that there was something between him and her. It only made John even more curious. “Oh, of course not.” She chuckles it off, a bit awkwardly.

John raises his brows at her again, which makes her sigh in defeat. “It was complicated, John. I could hardly understand it. And it’s been eight years. Like you said, he probably put all that way back into his past. He probably doesn’t care anymore.” She mutters, avoiding his eyes.

Doctor Watson wanted to disagree. The look on Sherlock’s face upon seeing her again only told him that Sherlock still remembers everything. That is saying a lot, romantic entanglements disturb Sherlock Holmes, and he probably doesn’t even know how dates work. The man thinks that marriage is pointless and relationships are utterly nonsensical, how can John believe that he was capable of being in a relationship with a woman like Jocelyn? He wants to tell her about the time that he once called her a bad person and that they shouldn’t let her inside the flat at all. She did something to Sherlock, which must be the reason why he disliked the thought of having her around. He doesn’t know whether he should ask about it, because they’ve just met earlier. It might be too personal.

“But I’m very glad that he’s found his path. He’s finally a detective. He always used to say that that’s what he always wanted to be when he finishes Uni.” She tells him, stopping when their food arrives. She grins at the waitress who brings it over and just picks up her spoon to start with her soup.

John couldn’t imagine a young Sherlock Holmes in University, deducing everything about anyone. Solving crimes after classes, being a complete nuisance to everyone. It is an amusing thought. “He started quite young, did he?” He teases, chewing on the piece of steak he brings to his mouth with a fork.

She laughs, wiping the corner of her mouth with a tissue. “Yeah, you could say that.” She smiles, thinking about how he used to drag her along to different things to solve. It’s what she imagines that John currently does. Maybe he’s Sherlock’s new best friend. She remembers how she used to be in his place and her smile fades a bit. She tries to hide it by drinking her water.

“How did you meet him, then?” John starts, wanting to know more and listen to her talk. She had this kind of voice that makes him want to listen; he wonders what brought her and Sherlock apart. Honestly, Jocelyn had the whole package.

She hums. “I used to be part of a music club.”

“In University?”

“Yeah, it was quite silly but I adored it.” She sheepishly says. “Sherlock was the new student. I had to, you know, show him around and show him the basics about being in the club. He played the violin.” She tells him.

“He still does, you know. Around ungodly hours, too.” John informs her with a grimace. “Can’t really complain, he plays quite good.”

“Yes, he did.” She smiles, thinking about the times they were inside that studio together, drinking coffee and laughing to one another. Now, that was replaced by the much colder Sherlock she saw today. “I had a big recital coming up, and Sherlock was paired with me. It was later changed into a duet.” She nods.

John brings his glass of water up to his lips to have a drink. He sets the glass back down on the table back on the ring that it made. “That sounds quite…”  _Romantic_. “Exciting. I hope Sherlock was much decent back then.”

She smiles, hinting many hidden memories. “He was.”

John is being reluctant. “So, you’re his ex, sort of?” He asks.

Jocelyn just slowly shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I was. As far as I know.”

“As far as you know?”  _Sounds like Sherlock, indeed_.

“He’s a complicated person.” She comments, continuing with her eating. “I’ve never met someone as complex as he is. I’m guessing that he still is that way?” She peeks over at John.

“Quite.” He answers, still not sure to what degree has Sherlock been ‘complex’ with her. For all he knew, he might have been worse back then. On the other hand, maybe less, if he is lucky.

She hums, nodding along. “Is he... enjoying his life here?” She quietly asks him.

John knows that she is concerned about Sherlock’s wellbeing, which was surprising because the only people he knows that cares about Sherlock can be counted with one hand. He wants to know more about how she and Sherlock were, because maybe his flatmate can finally have someone. It’s worth a shot.

“I guess he is? I have no clue what goes on inside that mind of his. Not sure if I’d like to know.” He tells her. “He can be a bit much, but I do consider him as my friend.” He adds, making her smile in relief.  _Relief?_  “He can be good sometimes.”

“Yes, I know. He’s just a lot to handle, really. But you’ll get used to it, you probably won’t even notice later on.” She chuckles, absentmindedly playing with her food with her spoon. John tilts his head at what she said, taking her words in. “How did you meet him?”

John lets out a breath and an awkward laugh. “Well, I met him at St. Barts through a friend who works there. He saw right through me.” He shakes his head left to right. “Figured out I was an Army Doctor during Afghanistan, even deduced something about my sister.”

“Harry,” she softly says with a grin.

“Yeah, he immediately knew she was keen with the liquor and that she left Clara.” He tsks.

Jocelyn knows about Harry’s situation and looks down. “She’s doing so much better now, though. Struggling, but she’s getting there.” She says.

John nods. “That’s good.” He doesn’t believe her but he likes the thought of his sister sobering up. “Anyway, I even met his brother who I thought was apparently his arch enemy.” He jokes.

Jocelyn tenses at the mention of Sherlock’s brother.  _Oh, God_. “Mycroft.” She whispers. “He’s here in London?”

He notices how tensed she suddenly became. “Well, yeah, he works for the British Government apparently.” He suspicious says. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing, it’s just that Mycroft and I never got along.” She mentions.

“Oh?” John looks down at his food. “Well, whoever does get along with him?”

She sighs. “Well, I used to—” she leans back on her seat.

“Really?” John lets out a laugh. “You were friends with Mycroft Holmes?” He asks in surprise before looking at her with an incredulous grin.

Jocelyn wonders about his words.  _So, Mycroft changed. Is he not the secretly soft, hard headed and stubborn man he once was? Is he now just plainly stubborn?_  She isn’t sure if he’d like to see him again. “Well, yes, I guess. Is it that bad?”

“No, no, of course not. It’s just a surprise, that’s all. I’ve met Mycroft, he doesn’t seem to be friendly at all.” Still stubborn, then. “He offered me money to spy on Sherlock once.”  _What?_  “I refused, of course, and he mentions to me that he was only concerned about his brother.” Still secretly soft then, and still a caring big brother.

“Wait, he offered you money?” Jocelyn pauses. “Is Mycroft a big deal now?”

“A very big one, I think. Working for the government really has its perks, huh?” He finishes his lunch and pushes the plate forward, wiping his mouth with a tissue.

Jocelyn looks down at her food, slowly losing her appetite from talking about the Holmes siblings. She really can’t wrap her head around Mycroft being part of the British Government. He’s really  _really_  important, then. She wonders how he’ll react upon seeing her again, if he does. 

***

Sherlock was inside the living room when Jocelyn and John came home. He is viewing the books again, looking through pages and is very concentrated. When he hears the door closing, he doesn’t look up and continues his research.

The woman takes her coat off and rubs her chilly arms with her hands to warm herself up. She glances at Sherlock and sees how he was ignoring them.

“I called the circus booth and booked you tickets for your... date tonight. Two tickets under the reservation of Holmes.”  _Well, ignoring her, that is._

John furrows his brows. “I haven’t told you if I’d decided—”

“You have. You think the cinema is too typical.” He says without looking up from flipping the pages of his books. “Did you a favor.”

“ _How_ — never mind.” He sighs and walks off to the bathroom to have a wash.

Jocelyn bites her bottom lip, looking around the flat. “So, what’s the case about?”

He’s silent, still opening books from a certain page and closing them after, moving on to another book. It was as if he’s looking for something.

She frowns, a little hurt that he ignored her after all these years of not knowing how each other has been. She understood though, it was her fault. “Sherlock—”

“Some peace and quiet would be great right now, thank you.” He interrupts, still not looking up to peek at her, as much as he feels like he wants to. He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. It’s absolutely repulsing to even look at her right now.

Jocelyn looks away and just lets out a shaky breath, wiping her sweaty hands on his skirt. “So we’re not going to talk about it?”

“Nope.” He immediately says, popping the end of the word with his lips.

“Right, then.” She nods. “Can I ask how you’ve been?”

Sherlock sighs, setting his book down. Of course, she’ll disturb him during his work. She always did that. It’s not surprising that she still does. “I’ll sleep well when I solve this case.”  _If he sleeps._

She glances at the cipher on the mirror. “Trying to crack the code?”

“Obviously.” He remarks.

She purses her lips. “They’re all in pairs.”

“Obviously.” He repeats.

Jocelyn lets out a laugh, knowing what he was trying to do. He’s talking her down to make her stop talking, she knows all about it. When she laughs, he finally stops working and looks at her. His tenses shoulders relax upon seeing her smile and fill the room with laughter. It is all too familiar.

“I didn’t say anything funny.” He bluntly says, ignoring how his mind is being so loud, too loud, talking about how her laugh just makes him feel hateful. He absolutely hates her laugh.

She grins at him. “Oh, but you did. Not sure if you recall but you used to do the same thing with me back then.” She says as a matter of fact.

Sherlock is about to say something, but doesn’t have anything. He can’t think of a reply and just closes his mouth and rolls his eyes, turning back to his work. “Reminiscing about the past is a waste of time.”

“Time is a construct created by human beings to measure their lives by the means of the hands of a clock.” She says, making him look at her again.

Sherlock leans back, straightening his back as he held a book. “Quoting what I said eight years ago is irrelevant.” From her words, the only thing he can pick up is how she still remembers. Either she’s really good at her memory like Sherlock or she was just simply....  _sentimental_.

“But it does bring back memories.” She says, looking at the head of an animal with horns pinned to the wall. She raises her brows when she realizes that it’s wearing headphones. She sits down by the table and crosses her legs.

 _Memories that Sherlock would prefer to be locked inside the shack inside his mind._ John enters the room, holding a towel as he wipes his face. “I heard laughing, what happened?” He smiles, believing that they both got along.

“Ah, John, that was just me. Sherlock doesn’t find anything amusing at all.” She comments with a smile, her voice was still kind and soft.

John looks at Sherlock, who busies himself with the book matching and searching. He ignores both of them and turns around to view the ciphers once more.

“What’s the case about?” She asks John. The consulting detective almost thought she was asking him again since he has his back turned towards the two of them, in which he opens his mouth to tell her off, but John beats him to it.

“Someone broke into a bank and left some symbols. Three people died, they were killed by some group that ships antiquities to Britain for money. We think that one of the two stole something and now we’re trying to figure out what that means.” He points at the ciphers on the wall. “Sebastian Wilkes contacted us about the break in a few days ago. He works at the bank.”

Jocelyn widens her eyes, crossing her arms. “Sebastian Wilkes? He’s a banker?” She asks. “If we’re talking about the same Sebastian, then that is the biggest surprise I’ve encountered today.” She giggles, finding it amusing how a jerk like Sebastian could be a high-end banker. “Still rude?”

Her words made the corner of Sherlock’s lips curl up. He couldn’t help it. There are doors in his mind that were opening, unleashing memories he suppressed immensely throughout the years. He’s glad that he isn’t facing the two, he’d definitely would rather be choked to death than have the woman witness his amusement with her words.

“The rudest.” John tells her, recalling how he made fun of Sherlock’s abilities.

“Nice to see that nothing’s changed.” She says, briefly glancing at Sherlock’s back. “Most things, that is.”

Sherlock audibly sighs at what she says. “Peace and quiet, I need peace and quiet.” He goes back to looking through books.

“Best if we leave him be.” John tells her.

“Okay, well, I’m going out to buy a few things. Do any of you need anything?” She asks him, Sherlock just discreetly listens to their conversation.

“No, we’re good here.” He nods. “Unless you want to buy Sherlock some lunch.” He says, making the other man scoff and roll his eyes, walking out of the living room to his own. “God, he’s such a man child.” He chuckles.

“An intelligent man child, don’t you think?” She fondly remarks. “I’ll see you later, thank you so much for letting me stay here again.” She warmly says, making him grin and nod.

“It’s fine, we don’t mind.” He assures, comforting her still hesitating state.

***

“You’re stalling.” A voice in Sherlock’s head says.

“God, not  _you_  again.” He complains.

When he opens his eyes, his room in Baker Street turns into his old flat back in Musgrave Hall. The contrasting ivory color scheme is familiar and sends a warm feeling of comfort to the pit of his stomach. He is sat on the couch instead of his bed, still remembering how soft it feels under him. He turns to his left and scowls disapprovingly when he sees his Jocelyn consciousness sitting next to him, looking away immediately. She now has brown hair, every detail of her current curly locks were etched into his brain and installed into his creation.

“Told you I’d see you soon. You took two syringes from that doctor from St. Barts.” She says, giving him a look. “Don’t tell me you’re relapsing.” She tilts her head.

“I’m not.”

“You can’t really lie to your consciousness, Sherl.” She singsongs.  _God, not that nickname._  It’s so ridiculous. “I know what you’re planning to do.”

“And that is?”

“Making me go away again. Me, the Jocelyn consciousness.” She cranes her neck to look at him, sadness in her eyes even though she has a smile on her face. “We both know you can’t.”

He sighs, not wanting to back down. “I can give up drugs. I’ve done it before.”

“That’s  _exactly_  the point.” She chuckles. “Drugs won’t do anything.”

He makes a face of disagreement, pursing his lips and tilting his head. “Yes, it will.”

She sways her head side to side, considering his words. “Maybe for like five minutes before your head goes,” she makes a playful disgruntled expression, mocking an explosion with her hands like the child-like woman she is. “—again.”

“The five minutes of quiet will be worth it.” He remarks.

“But it will get worse after the drugs wear off.” She points out before shrugging. “Maybe just stick to the nicotine patches. I know how much you like those.” She nudges him with her shoulder, making him roll his eyes at her.

“They’re dull. And I’m all out.” He quickly says with a blank tone.

“So your best solution is to buy heroin from your homeless network?” She teases. “Come on, Sherlock. Don’t do this.” Her voice is soft and oddly comforting, familiar and just...  _lovely_.

“I have to.”

“We both know you don’t need to.” She urges him, grabbing his hand and taking it into hers.

Sherlock could almost feel the warmth of her hand, he still remembers so clearly. He hates it, he despises it. He loathes every bit of everything about this. Jocelyn just squeezes his hand and it made his facial expression soften. “Talk to me.” She pleads.

“I am, aren’t I?” He forces out.

She dissolves into laughter. “No, I meant me. The real me. I’m right there, in the flesh.” She tells him in between giggles as if he doesn’t already know. “You don’t have to imagine me anymore.”

“Oh, God, can I just lock you away again?” He complains, tone distasteful. Imagine her,  _please_. She’s the one who keeps sneaking into his mind like some unwanted virus.

Jocelyn just smiles. “Please, talk to me. I know you want to.”

“I don’t.” He gives her a sarcastic smile and immediately replaces it with an annoyed expression before looking away from her.

Jocelyn sighs in defeat and just shifts in her seat, lying down on the couch and settling her feet on his lap. Sherlock groans at her childishness and glares at her, but makes no move of removing her legs from his lap. “Would you quit doing that?”

She still has that grin on her face, oozing with freedom. “I will not quit bugging you unless you talk to the real me.”

“This is absolutely ridiculous. You are a creation of my mind, I can easily shut you down—”

“With drugs?” She asks. “That’s a bad first impression.” Jocelyn scrunches her nose. “Imagine how I’ll react upon finding your OD’ed body. What then?” She asks him, to which he doesn’t know how to answer. “Thought so. Now go out there and have a chat.”

Sherlock is very much annoyed. “She’s not in the flat.” He excuses.

“Then wait for her to come back,” She deadpans. “Honestly, for a genius detective, you can be quite ludicrously stupid sometimes.” She says with an amused laugh, Sherlock snapping his gaze towards her upon the insult. “It’s quite funny how you’re fighting against yourself. Good thing you have me, then.”

“Having you around is hardly a good thing.” He has such resentment towards her.

From his words, she just slowly sits up and looks away from him. It is astonishing how even though she was just his creation inside his mind palace, she still acted the same way she would in real life. Maybe Sherlock has done too much of his constant observation. “I do believe that those words of yours are for both of us. Your consciousness and the real me, huh?” She sounds a bit sad, and it made Sherlock’s chest feel heavy. He ignores the feeling. “By all means, do what you want with your syringes. But please remember that I’m here now. The actual me is out there somewhere and all you could think of doing is putting some awful things inside your body?” She asks in disappointment. “You’re better than this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock listens to her speak, knowing that it’s just him talking. Trying to remind himself that this is not really Jocelyn. She’s only a representation of how he perceives her. Of how he used to perceive her, that is. “You’re not real. She would never say any of that nonsense to me.”

Jocelyn presses her lips together. “How can you know that if you don’t talk to her?” She simply says before reaching over to cup his face. He finds himself closing his eyes and leaning forward to feel her hand on his cheek, but it never came.

He opens his eyes and feels angered when he realizes that he is now back in Baker Street, holding a syringe while having his left sleeve rolled up. He sighs and fixes his sleeves, throwing away the syringe in the bin next to his bed.


	3. The Palace

Jocelyn comes to Baker Street with a shopping bag and some takeout half an hour later. She enters the flat and finds Sherlock still looking through the books. He looks so concentrated with his work. She just bites her bottom lip, letting herself be ignored as she goes to the kitchen to move the takeout into a plate. John is nowhere to be seen, probably went outside for an errand.

It is an odd situation, to be inside the same room with someone you haven’t seen for years. Even though it’s been a long time, she can still remember some events from the past that she really treasures. They might not mean anything to anyone, but she puts such importance to specific memories.

\--

The sound of the door opening in a middle of students being silent inside the room was pretty distracting. A nineteen-year-old Jocelyn looks up, her face was framed with laboratory glasses and her hands were covered with gloves. She was preparing her equipment for the experiment they’re going to conduct.

She saw Sherlock walking inside the lab, looking around the room and immediately spotting her bright blue hair. He had a stern look on his face as he diverts his attention to the teacher in front to inform him that he was a new student. The professor didn’t bother to introduce him to the class and just directly told him that there was an experiment to be done, and he would need a partner. Sherlock felt he didn’t need one, but he only let out a breath through his nose and started to walk down the aisle, sitting down on the empty spot next to Jocelyn. He had a blank expression on his face as he looked down at the book on the table, reading the experiment they had to do.

Jocelyn was still wiping the glass beaker. “I didn’t know you had this class.” She whispered, trying her best not to be so loud.

Sherlock huffed. “Talking about myself is simply repulsive.” He quietly said without looking up at her.

She just glanced at him and pointed at the drawer under him. “Lab coat and gloves.” She told him, but the boy made no move to retrieve the items. “You’re quite stubborn, aren’t you?’ She teased.

He only rolled his eyes and opened the drawer, taking the gloves only and slipping them on. He locked his eyes with hers, mocking a happy expression. “Satisfied?” Then, his fake smile vanished.

She mirrored his mocking face. “Maybe.”

Sherlock sighed and looked back at the experiment. “This is too dull and boring.”

Jocelyn raised her eyebrows at him in surprise. “Why’d you take this class then?”

“It was never my intention to attend University at all, Miss Fray.” He started to mix two substances together, following the instructions he read once and had memorized already. “I never picked any of my classes.” He said with spite.

She frowned. “Everyone has the right to pick their own path, right?” She softly said and started to read the instructions, her knee brushed against his own. The small move made the boy’s eyes dart down to her bare knee, but immediately looking away.

Sherlock took precaution of her words. He only met her three days ago and now she acted as if they were the closest people in the world. He seemed to know a lot about her already, just from looking at her. But she barely knew anything about him. Not everyone has the deduction skills that Sherlock possessed. “Okay, I think we have to— Oh, my  _God_ , Sherlock—” Her mouth fell open as she observed the sudden mist forming from the beaker and was pouring out. “Wait, how did you—”

“Followed the instructions.” He blankly stated and watched the beaker as the liquid changed color and created more mist.

Jocelyn was speechless and she could only guess what the other students in the class were reacting; they’ve been trying to figure out how to get the mist to form and to watch the new guy do it in less than a minute, it was practically humiliating. “This is a two-hour experiment! You did it in less than five seconds.” She half-whispered and half-bellowed, surprised but she had an idiotic grin on her face.

“Four and a half, but thank you for your input.” He simply said and raised his hand to catch the attention of the professor.

When the professor checked their output, he was clearly impressed by how Sherlock had done it. He was skeptical on how he did it, but he had no words. No one has ever done the experiment that fast. Clearly, Sherlock had a gift and Jocelyn could see it. They were let off early when Jocelyn informed the professor that he was still a new student and was barely aware of the school directions. She was positive that Sherlock already knew everything there is to know about the school, but what wouldn’t anyone do to be able to leave class early? The minute the stepped outside of the classroom, Jocelyn was ecstatic and was laughing, holding her stomach. “I can’t believe you did that!” She was absolutely astonished. “And to think that you didn’t even choose this class.”

Sherlock could recognize the amusement on her face; it brought a warm feeling in his stomach. “I was only following instructions.”

“Pretty sure you skipped three or five.” She teased, shoving her hands inside the front pockets of her green coat, her backpack was a little heavy on her back but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. “You are something else.”

The boy just glanced at her, feeling quite comfortable with her presence. “Something…  _else?”_  He questioned as they walked through the hallway together.

Jocelyn smiled at him. “Yes, I’ve never met someone like you before. I mean, you’ve figured many things out about me on the first few minutes we’ve met and you even learned my composition in less than half an hour. Which brings me to a question; are you a direct descent of Paganini?” She asked, not to flatter him, but to acknowledge his skills as a violinist. He was quite good. One glance at the notes and then he could play the whole thing in a minute. It was surprising and then all of her worries about having a duet are gone. She knew she had to perform with him; it wouldn’t be the same if she didn’t. She followed her guts and they were telling her that Sherlock was someone she shouldn’t ignore. Not that it was difficult to ignore him, everything he does was somehow noticeable for Jocelyn now. Moreover, they’ve only known each other for three days.

He was flattered, of course. “No.” He simply answered. “Close, but no.” He tried to go along with her joke and just made her grin widen. “Are you a direct descent of Chopin?”

Her cheeks heated up. She was never one to receive compliments, and even when she does, she had no idea how to respond to them. She tried to ignore how her face was reddening, and the way Sherlock noticed and knotted his brows at in confusion. “No. Close, but no.” She confidently responding, quoting him and made the boy smile a bit.

She was quite aware of how he barely smiled. It was unusual how Jocelyn mentally kept count of the times he so much as had a distinct expression on his face. She shouldn’t, but something about him just made her feel things. It was very unnatural, but maybe it was because she has never met anyone as…  _extraordinary_  as he is.

Sherlock looked at her, wondering why she still chose to be around him. Normally, everyone ignored him throughout the day. The only class he had with Jocelyn was Chemistry, and it was the last period of the day before they start practicing for the recital again. Everyone in his class thought he was a freak, and it was only the beginning of school for him. High School was much worse, though. University was tolerable because Sherlock learned to ignore the comments. Well, some of the comments.

“Are you getting a dorm today?” She asked as they enter the music studio.

He sighed. “Yes, I’ll be having a roommate as well.  _Tedious_.” He huffed, opening the case of his violin and taking the instrument out to proceed into cleaning it as he always does. “I’ve met him, he’s way too loud and too annoying for me to deal with every night.”

She looked at him, seeing how he was somewhat nervous about having a roommate even though he claimed that it would only be annoying to have one. She didn’t say anything to confront him. “Well, maybe it’ll be good. You might find some potential in your new roommate. Find some friends, right? University is about that, I guess. I remember my first day, everyone made a fuss about the hair and the clothing.” She chuckled, remembering it all. “But now, all I get are compliments and whatnot.”

From what she said, Sherlock couldn’t help but observe her from her bright blue hair she kept in a ponytail and down to the leather boots she seemed to be so fond of, since she wore it whenever Sherlock saw her. He didn’t see anything wrong with her appearance, maybe it was because beauty doesn’t mean anything to him. Beauty is a construct manifested from childhood fantasies and society norms; in short, he didn’t care about how she looked. But on the contrary, he found her physicality quite pleasing. He was much more interested with how her mind works, as much as he never liked to admit it to himself. Before he could even notice it, he was memorizing every detail about her that he was already aware of, along with the new details. He welcomed the new things about her. Every day, there was something new to learn. So many more.

“Your blue hair is a bit ridiculous.” He bluntly stated, not aware that he said it aloud.

Instead of being offended, she just dissolved in laughter. This woman really did love laughing, but why? It’s only a sound made by people’s mouths, so why was her laughter so intriguing? Anyone can laugh, why was hers so important to him now? He didn’t dislike the feeling, letting it cloud his head. “Well, thank you. Finally, someone said it.” She huffed playfully, sitting down in front of her keyboard and sighing. “Let’s begin.” Her words echoed in the studio, making Sherlock place the violin near his chin and begin the first note.

\--

Jocelyn leaves the plate of food on the kitchen table, wincing when some of Sherlock’s unfinished experiments were scattered all over. The whole flat was a mess; crates of books were everywhere, books on the floor, laboratory equipment filled with various liquids. Sherlock doesn’t seem the mind the mess, only contributing to it by throwing books onto the floor without much of a care of how to clean up after the case is over.

“Where’s John?” She asks.

Surprisingly, Sherlock answers her. “Gone. Wanted to buy some flowers or whatever he mentioned, for Sandra.” He mutters, looking through the books.

Jocelyn smiles at the thought of the doctor trying to impress his date. Not even five hours after meeting, both Jocelyn and John grew comfortable with one another. It was somewhat similar to how Sherlock and Jocelyn were when they first met, but surely, Sherlock has forgotten all about that. Jocelyn thinks. “Her name is Sarah, don’t forget. If the date is a success, you might be seeing a lot of her.” She reminds, crouching down to pick up some of the books that Sherlock so carelessly threw. She begins to collect them and closing them properly, stacking them inside of an empty crate.

Sherlock doesn’t know why she’s helping, but it made him roll his eyes.  _Talk to her, you idiot._  He hears a voice and made him wince in disapproval. The sound he made catches her attention as she looks at him with the familiar concern in her eyes. “What is it? Did you find something?”

“No, haven’t found anything for two days now.” He frustratingly says, ignoring the voice in his head. He isn’t going insane, of course he isn’t. His mind is just very persistent when it comes to the things he had to do, but loathed in doing. He fishes his phone out of his coat and dials the number of the Circus that John and his date will be going to. He presses the phone against his ear and waits for someone to pick up. There’s a click on the other line and a man introduces the Circus, asking how he could help. “Yes, I booked two tickets under the reservation of Holmes. I’d like to add another. There will be three tickets to be exact. Thank you.” He informs him, hanging up before the man would decide to speak. He slips the phone back into his pocket and starts to walk to the kitchen. He sees the food on a plate and glances at Jocelyn with suspicion. She is still sorting out the books from the floor, her back towards him. He knows that she already had lunch with John, his flatmate specifically stated that earlier. His face relaxes when he realizes that the food was prepared for him. Jocelyn went to queue and ordered something for him, going with what John jokingly stated before Sherlock went to his room to be induced in drugs, which was unsuccessful.

Sherlock’s tense shoulders relax as well, swallowing a bit. “You may have misplaced something.” He says, even though he knew that the food was for him. Oddly enough, he wanted her to say it.

“Oh?” She asks, giving him a questioning look as she stands up and walks to the other side of the table, facing Sherlock who was at the opposite side. “I got some lunch for you.”

“Digestion interferes with my thinking.” He indelicately says to her, looking down at her since she was much shorter.

Jocelyn nods. “I know,” she says, smiling afterwards. “I also know that you have no other leads except that Circus event. Why else are you crashing John’s date?” She teases, knowing that she revealed into eavesdropping. “Since you have nothing else to do except look through books and wait until eight this evening, I think you should eat.” She tells him. “I’m going upstairs to sleep. I kept ignoring my jetlag all morning, but now I can rest. Call if you need me.” She casually says, walking around the table to take her shopping bag and walking upstairs.

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock distastefully remarks, not moving an inch from where he stood. He hears her footsteps stop; silence engulfed them for a second.

From behind him, Jocelyn smiled with sadness on her face. “It’s just an expression.” She mutters breathily before proceeding to go upstairs and rest.

Sherlock tilts his head, looking at the food. He scoffs, taking the plate and throwing the food into the trash bin, not wanting any rats to accommodate the table if he ever leaves the food untouched, which he would have. Definitely would have. When he’s done, he goes back to continuing his experiment, trying to take his mind off things.

***

“It’s been years since anyone’s taken me to the Circus!” Sarah exclaims as she and John walk down the street on the way to the Circus.

John went along with Sherlock’s suggestion and he is glad that Sarah is enjoying herself so far. He hopes that things will go smoothly; he’s never had a companion in a while ever since he got back from Afghanistan. They had small talk on the way there and as John is asking for their reserved tickets, the man from the counter tells him that there were actually three tickets under the name Holmes.

“What? No, I don’t think so, we only booked two.” John carefully says.

“And I went ahead and called back to book one for myself.” Sherlock emerges from behind them, making John sigh and roll his eyes, turning around to face him. Sherlock had an emotionless expression on his face, extending his arm across to Sarah. “I’m Sherlock.”

Sarah seems to hesitate while John looks completely annoyed. She laughs awkwardly and goes to shake his gloved hand. “Hi...”

He pauses. “Hello.” He says before letting go of her hand and gives them a tight smile, walking off to God knows where. John is shocked by his rudeness and watches him walk away, lips parted in both surprise and annoyance.

The consulting detective is now waiting by the stairs near the entrance when John walks up to him. “You couldn’t let me have just one night off?” He glares at him. “For God’s sake, I’m on a date, Sherlock. Where’s Jocelyn?” He asks, crossing his arms as he waits for Sarah to join them.

He ignores his last question. “Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one night only? It fits, John.” He insists. “The Tong sent an assassin to England—”

“Dressed as a tightrope walker? Bloody hell, Sherlock, behave!”

“We’re looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity?” He questions. John thinks that Sherlock isn’t aware of the inconvenience he’d just done to sabotage his date with a lovely woman. “Exit visas are scarce in China, they would need a good reason to get out of their country. I just need to have a quick look around the place—”

“Fine, you do that, I’m going to take Sarah out for a pint.” He points his thumb behind himself and starts to walk away when Sherlock raises his voice to stop him.

“I need your help.” Sherlock is persistent.

John sighs. “Where’s Jocelyn?”

Sherlock looks at him in confusion, leaning back. He’s clearly affected by the mere mention of her, John notices. “What does she have to do with this?”

“Can’t you annoy her instead of me? I’m on a bloody date, I’ve got a couple of other things on my mind this evening?”

 _Oh, here we go._ “Like what?” He challenges.

John blinks at him, stunned. “You are kidding?”

Sherlock looks around, lowering his voice. “What’s so important?”

“Sherlock, I’m right in the middle of a date!”

 _“Could’ve asked me to come along instead.”_  An unwanted voice from Sherlock’s head tells him and he closes his eyes, shaking his head to try to push the voice out.

“You want me to chase some killer while I’m trying to…”

Sherlock waits for him to finish his sentence, and when he doesn’t, he simply pressures him with a, “What?”

John falls off the edge of his anger towards him and accidentally says, “While I’m trying to get off with Sarah—hey... ready?” He awkwardly smiles when the woman comes back.

Sherlock shakes his head and starts to walk inside.  _Humans_.

***

While looking through the room of the performers, Sherlock hears that voice again. “You didn’t have to crash his date, you know?”

“Are you  _always_  going to be there whenever I make a mistake?” He whispers, closing his eyes and when he opens them, he’s in the middle of his old living room again.

She gasps in surprise. “Are you admitting into making a mistake?” She lets out a sudden breath, as if a laugh mixed with a scoff.

Sherlock groans at her. “Will you leave me alone? I need things to be quiet. I’m working.” He grumbles, clutching his temples with his hands and shutting his eyes tightly.

Jocelyn circles around him and frowns. “What the hell are you doing?” She observes his ridiculous appearance.

He winces, hands shaking as he forces himself back into the backstage of the circus. “Waking myself up from this foolish trance. I’m wasting time being here.”

“You do realize that it’ll only be a second that has passed in real life while you’re here in your mind palace, right? Your mind really works way too fast, you wouldn’t even notice that it’s only been a second.” She stands in front of him, tilting her head upwards to look up at his face. “You could feel like you’ve been here for hours, but still emerge into reality with only one minute that has passed.” She says. “Not that you need me to remind you, honestly. But you did spend hours here, years ago. Many hours, in fact.” She cheekily says, which makes Sherlock frown and pause his movements.

He slowly puts his hands back down and peers over at her. She really hit a nerve, this time. Only it isn’t Jocelyn. It’s Sherlock; he’s the one who’s been telling him these. This girl in front of him isn’t the real Jocelyn, she’s basically just Sherlock, talking and acting and thinking in a Jocelyn way. That would never make sense, but in his mind, it does.

“Years that I’d rather not dwell upon.” He icily said, stepping forward until their bodies were mere inches apart. Jocelyn never looks away, still watching him with those blue eyes that Sherlock still remembers. Every detail of her face, it is there. It almost feels as if she’s the real Jocelyn, and that fact made the hole in his chest widen. His eyes were fiery and bitter. His fists clenched from the pent up anger and hatred, he could punch a wall. Sherlock only wishes that he could destroy this place.

“You’re thinking about it.” She starts. “About getting rid of this place.”

She knows him too well and he hates it so much. He couldn’t describe the type of anger he had towards her, but it is something in between of yelling and just plain out loathing. “Leave me alone. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I certainly will never do.” He spat with venom. “You never should’ve come back.”

In midst of his confrontation, she smiles only a little bit. He notices some tears in her eyes. Sherlock analyzes her face and could see one emotion;  _pain_. “The mere fact that you don’t want me to stay is the exact reason why you need her.” She tells him, referring to the real her that is currently in Baker Street, sleeping her jet lag off. “Let her explain. Find out why she did what she did. And forgive her.” She advises, making him snicker in cynically, shaking his head as he looks around the room. Anywhere except her face. “It’ll be good for both of you.”

“You don’t get the right to decide what’s good for me.” Sherlock points at her with an accusing finger. “I will never forgive you.” He says, talking to her as if she is the real one.

Jocelyn turns her head to the side only a little. “You’ve never been one to hold grudges.”

“I can make an exception for you.” He hastily replied, snapping his head towards her. “Now leave me alone.” He pauses in between words, head shaking with the resentment he stores for her.

Jocelyn blinks at him and just sighs, turning around and walking away. Sherlock looks down and closes his eyes, gasping for breath the next second when he is brought back to reality. Just in time, the door opens and he immediately goes to hide himself behind the clothing rack, mentally cursing at himself for making too much noise. Miraculously, the person who enters the room didn’t notice and continued with what they are supposed to do. He tries to forget the conversation he just had with his consciousness and sees the familiar spray paint can inside a bag next to him. He goes to test the color by spraying some on a mirror, confirming the fact that it really is same paint used to threaten the victims. He sees a reflection of another person in the mirror and turns around, prepared for any attacks. He’s always been prepared for attacks.

***

They come back to their flat a few hours later. There was a big fight that happened not long ago in the circus and John’s companion, Sarah, managed to help Sherlock by beating his attacker with a long wooden tube. After the brawl, they went to Scotland Yard to confirm the fight, and have police officers raid the place, only to see that the people have fled the scene. Sherlock saw the mark on one of their members’ foot, only because Sarah knocked the opponent out. Sherlock makes a note to give back since he owes her a favor as he walks inside the flat, still greeted by the crates of books. He takes his coat off and immediately goes to the pictures of the cipher pinned to the glass.

“They’ll be back in China tomorrow.”

“They won’t leave without what they came for.” Sherlock tells him and just in time, Jocelyn descends from the stairs and looks at them with her baffled expression. He glances at her briefly and remembers how he spoke to his Jocelyn consciousness and what they talked about. He tries not to focus on that and remains concentrated about the case.

“John? What happened to you?” She asks, seeing how disheveled they both looked.

Sarah looks at her and then at John. Upon seeing her expression, John became alert. “No! No, no, no. She’s not—we’re not—” He is nervously chuckling.

Jocelyn catches on and immediately shakes her head. “Oh, please don’t worry. I’m his sister’s friend. Only staying for a couple of weeks.” She assures her. Sherlock slowly turns his body slightly to look at the group behind him, only to turn back to his work with a loud and annoyed sigh.  _Why do they have to bicker right behind me?_

Sarah doesn’t feel that reassured but she relaxes a bit from her words, she just slowly smiles and looks away, apologizing immediately. John tells her it’s okay and rubs her back. “Well, maybe I should leave you all to it.” She says.

John looks at her with a frown. “No you don’t have to go.” At the same time, Sherlock says, “Yes, it’d be better if you left now.”

Dr. Watson wants to swat Sherlock’s arm for saying that to his date, in which the detective ruined himself. “You can stay.” He insists. “He’s kidding. Please stay if you’d like.”

Jocelyn glances at Sherlock with a stern look, shaking her head as if to ask him,  _‘what are you trying to do?’_  In which Sherlock, absentmindedly, responds by scrunching his nose in disgust, telling her by body language that he just doesn’t like being around people like Sarah. Better yet, he wouldn’t like to admit it; he doesn’t like being around people he isn’t familiar of.

Sarah hesitates, but tries to ease off the situation. “Is it just me or is anyone else starving?” She chuckles.

“Oh,  _God_.” Sherlock exasperatedly says under his breath, ignoring his internal organs screaming at him to eat. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning.

Jocelyn runs her fingers through her hair to push it back and lets John walk past her into the kitchen to look for something to eat.

“So this is what you do.” Sarah starts, looking around the flat while Sherlock sat in his chair to figure out the cipher. “You and John. You solve puzzles for a living.”

Sherlock blinks, not looking back at John’s new girlfriend. “Consulting detective.” He simply says. Jocelyn smiles at the back of his head and just goes over to John.

“Find anything?” She chuckles.

“No, not a single decent food. God, help me. All of these are canned goods from my grocery shopping a few days ago. I never would have assumed that I’ll have a date over.” John mutters under his breath. “I ought to be single forever now.”

Jocelyn laughs quietly. “I got you covered, I’ll run down Speedy’s to get some snacks first.” She offers, making him sigh in relief, thanking her afterwards. She grabs her coat and walks out of the flat. Like some kind of sense, Sherlock looks back and sees her descend down the stairs whilst John emerges from the kitchen. Sherlock is starting to notice how close John and Jocelyn were becoming and he disliked the feeling inside his gut. He ignores it.

“What are those squiggles?” Sarah asks, pointing at the papers. Sherlock wants to yell at John for letting her stay here.

“They’re numbers. Ancient Chinese dialect.” He says.

“Oh, well, right. I should’ve known that.” Sarah immediately says. She picks up a plastic zip lock with another copy inside. Sherlock looks up at her, visibly bothered by her invasion of space. Jocelyn was a whole lot worse, honestly. She would’ve just sprawled across the table just to try to get his attention— _Oh, God_ , why is he thinking about her now? He hated her so much, that was why. He couldn’t stand the sight of her. At least Sarah is somewhat tolerable— _is she?_  “So these number, it’s a cipher?”

“Exactly.” He mockingly says, not that she notices.

“And each pair of number is a word?”

Sherlock sits upright, analyzing her words.  _How did she know that?_  Sherlock never told her that. Unlikely for John to even speak about a case whilst on a romantic event with a possible companion. “How did you know that?” He asks, brows knotted together.

“Well, two words are already translated here.” She points it out; Soo Lin Yao’s handwriting.

“John.” He calls out, taking the piece of paper. “John, look at this. Soo Lin translated it for us already, whilst we were running around the gallery.” He groans. “We must have been staring right at it!” He exclaims.

“At what?” John queries.

“The book, John. The book she used to translate this for us.” He slips on his coat and sprints down the stairs and out of Baker Street. He bumps into a couple and knocks the book off their hands. Jocelyn is exiting Speedy’s with snacks packed inside a bag when she sees Sherlock grunting in frustration as he looks for a taxi.

She walks up to him. “What’s wrong?’ Concern courses through her upon seeing him look distressed.

“I figured it out, the key to the cipher. It’s on a young girl’s desk, at a museum. I need to—” He pauses and leans back, realization sweeps over his body and he starts running past her, going after the couple he bumped into earlier. Jocelyn looks back and watches him. Sherlock subconsciously walks back to Jocelyn with a book in his hands, flipping through the pages and murmuring the numbers fifteen and one. Sherlock looks at the page he flipped to and says, “Deadman,” while looking up. “They were threatening to kill them.” He tells Jocelyn.

 “The people at the circus.” She mutters under her breath, realizing it all as well. They both look at each other for a second and Sherlock could sense the familiarity of staring into her eyes. Her real ones, not the ones he managed to duplicate inside his head. Sherlock, without taking his eyes off her, takes a piece of paper from his pocket and looks down at it, deciphering all of the symbols in the middle of the street. He hesitates, but gives the paper to Jocelyn, who looks at him with confusion. “Write what I’m going to say. Quickly.” He says, making her nod and put down the bag of food she is carrying. She takes his pen and starts to write down the words on top of the symbols he tells her to. They worked together and when Sherlock is finished, they held both sides of the paper to read it.

“Nine mill for Jade pin, dragon den, black tramway.” Sherlock reads, glancing at her.

“We need to tell John.” Jocelyn says, and Sherlock nods along before he starts to run back to the flat.

They get to the flat and Sherlock is already calling for John. “I’ve got it! The cipher, the book. It’s the London A-Z that they’re using,” He looks around the flat for John, examining the kitchen. Jocelyn goes to the living room and her mouth parts at the enormous symbol painted on the windows.

“Sherlock, that doesn’t say deadman, does it?” She cautiously asks and Sherlock walks up next to her, looking at the symbols, his eyes widening in realization that his flatmate, his friend, along with Sarah, have been captured.

Sherlock is still thinking about what to do and there is that distinct conflictive expression on his face. All while he seems relaxed,  _Jocelyn is panicking_. It’s her first day here, her host is kidnapped along with his date? It’s not every day for her to have one of her friends be taken all of a sudden. She can’t easily wrap her head around the fact that some people just decides to threaten them.

“Do you even know where they are?” She asks, still trying to process things as she stares at the yellow symbols, Sherlock goes to the bookshelves and finds a map, whispering the word ‘tramway’ under his breath as if he would forget it. He is quietly panting, more on because of anxiety. The thought of John being in danger is absolutely unbearable, and Jocelyn can see how much he cares about the doctor. She feels her heart racing, also very nervous about the whole thing. She has never encountered a kidnapping before, much less someone whom she just met. She doesn’t have any clue on what to do, so she just watches Sherlock, who skims over a map.

He briefly looks over at her, frowning when he realizes that she’s in distress. He decides not to mention it. “I do. Stay here.” He simply says and starts to walk outside the flat.

She gapes at him. “ _Wh—_ I’m coming with you!” She declares and follows along his trail after putting down the bag she carried from Speedy’s.

He scowls, tilting his head and pressing his lips together. “No, you’ll only slow me down.”

She scoffs, still following him. “Excuse me? Slow you down?” She tries to get him to repeat his words.

He does, and also stops in his tracks. “Yes, slow me down. Didn’t you hear me?” He rolls his eyes, feeling a bit anxious at the thought of his friend — flatmate, being in danger.

She glares. “I want to help!” She claims, and follows him to the pavement, watching as he calls for a taxi.

Sherlock is aggravated by the thought of her coming along. He doesn’t want her to. Only because he knows that she’ll slow him down. Even so, distract him. Get herself killed. Who knows if these people were armed? However, they do want something. Which is solely the reason why Sherlock clings to the possibility that John and Sarah or only hostages. He turns to Jocelyn, stopping her from walking past him by towering over her. Jocelyn looks up at his face with determination on her face. “You’re staying here.”

“There’s no time to argue,” she simply says as a cab pulls over in front of them, immediately climbing inside and waiting for him to just go along with it.

As much as Sherlock hates how she’s right, he decides to just sigh and climbs inside the taxi. He sits next to her and tells the driver to drive to the nearest street to the tramway he’s heading. Jocelyn’s knee is brushing against his and it made him shift his leg towards his own side, avoiding any contact. She notices, but looks out the window to frown.

Sherlock leaves the car at the very second it stopped, Jocelyn pays for the ride and soon follows the consulting detective, sprinting after him.  He continues to walk, yet Jocelyn slows down. She can hear muffled groans and almost gasps, but covers her mouth immediately. Sherlock doesn’t seem fazed at all, which is unusual because he looked somewhat worried earlier. Now, he looks focused as he turns to her, leaning his face close so he can whisper and she’ll be able to hear. “Listen to me, John and Sarah are in danger. I have reason to believe that they will not die, but due to the balance of probability, death is somewhat likely.” He lowly tells her, glancing to his right to John and Sarah’s direction. Jocelyn couldn’t see, but she is slightly concerned that she may be seen if she lifts her head. “You have to do exactly as I tell you, or else they die. Do you understand?” He presses, eyes are intense and burning through her soul.

She just nods with determination. “What do I do?”

“Stay here.” He says, not giving her time to reply to him as he stands and stealthily moves to another place to hide behind. Jocelyn jumps at the sound of John’s voice.

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!”

“I don’t believe you.” A woman’s voice with a thick Chinese accent says aloud.

“You should, you know.” Jocelyn snaps her head towards Sherlock, who is speaking to the woman. The woman turns around and points her gun at his direction, but he stays hidden. “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him.”

Jocelyn widens her eyes as he makes a move in exposing himself in the open. “Sherlock, don’t—” Too late, he already has moved behind another wall to protect himself. “God, Sherlock, you stubborn  _arsehole_.” She mutters to herself.

“How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?” He lists off. If they aren’t in a dangerous situation that could involve death, Jocelyn would have laughed at just disagree to everything Sherlock has to say. “That’s a semi-automatic. If you fire, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second.” He mentions, and Jocelyn sees him pick up a big metal pipe.

“Well?” The woman asks.

“Well,” he starts, swinging the pipe at the man who approached him, knocking him to his feet. Jocelyn peeks over and sees that both John and Sarah are tied up. Sarah is placed in front some sort of contraption and Jocelyn sees how a heavy rock is slowly lowering itself. She doesn’t want to think about what might happen if the ball reaches it’s lowest point. She wants to help, so she looks around for anything to use to fight. On the other hand, maybe, she can sneak in to untie Sarah. “The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone, including you.” He installs fear into her, and it seems to have worked. Jocelyn jumps when Sherlock kicks down a big can that had fire in, putting out the light and the woman ends up escaping before Jocelyn could even catch her. She looks around in panic and before knowing it, she is making her way to Sarah to untie her, looking up at the ball as it lowered down. Something about that makes her stomach churn. Sherlock catches the sight of her and something boils inside him. He isn’t sure if it was anger or _… something else._

John looks shocked from seeing her, gaping while her hands shook as she unties the knot. “Jocelyn, what are you doing here?” He asks.

“Oh, you know, enjoying my time in London.” She jokes, but feels something wrap around her throat.  _Cloth._  She goes tumbling backwards, the cloth tightens around her neck, cutting off her air supply, and she starts to choke. She couldn’t breathe, but she is still trying to reach for the ropes around Sarah. John tries standing up whilst being tied as he fails to knock over the contraption in front of Sarah. With all the strength she could muster, she manages to kick one of the legs of the chair and knocked Sarah over, getting her out of line from danger. Jocelyn grasped the cloth around her neck and tries reaching behind her, desperate for air, when suddenly, the pressure around his skin vanishes. She takes a deep breath and cough a few times, her vision is a bit blurry. She can still see Sherlock struggle with the man who tried to strangle her, faintly seeing John crawl to the giant crossbow, and then she hears the arrow be released and a loud piercing sound, along with a groan.

Sherlock pushes the impaled man away, sitting back on the ground and sighing in exhaustion. He catches his breath and goes to Sarah, untying her. “It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.”  _Oh, brother mine, indirectly speaking to people, now?_ He ignores his brother’s voice in his head. “It’s over now.”

Jocelyn coughs and is trying to steady her breathing as John goes to help her on her feet. “Okay?”

“Yes—” Her voice breaks, so she clears her throat. “Yes, all is fine.” She quietly says.

Sherlock frowns at her voice, but tries not to pay that much attention.

John stretches his arms, panting. He goes to comfort Sarah; poor woman must be traumatized now. He hushes her when she starts to sob into his chest, even though she is trying hard not to. Sherlock only folds his arms and watches the scene in front of him. He briefly looks over at Jocelyn, who is brushing off the dirt on her dress.

John looks at her. “I can help you pack your things when we get back.” He offers, certain that she must not want to stay in Baker Street anymore.

Sherlock is expecting her to leave, but deep down, he knew that the thrill of it would lure her in. Therefore, he isn’t at all surprised that she looks at John as if he grew a second head and scoffs. “Are you  _kidding_? Tonight made me want to stay even more.” She tries to lift up the spirits by giving them a smile, helping Sarah on her feet.

Sarah thanks her and is still shaking, so John rubs her back. Poor girl. Jocelyn, on the other hand, is exhilarated. She feels some kind of rush that she couldn’t explain. Sherlock could notice it, but he ignores it. He ignores the familiarity of all of it. In fact, he loathes how he still remembers fragments of her. Jocelyn decides to leave the couple alone and walks over to Sherlock, who is now calling the police. “You did great today, you know?” She says.

 _Praise?_  So far, Sherlock has done nothing but horrible things to do and he still receives praise from her? Unbelievable, Sherlock thought. How pretentious can she be? He chooses to ignore her and turns to John. “Stay for a while until the police come. They might need some questions.” He lets them know. “Then, bring your lady companion home.” He tells John.

Minutes later, the police came. A man wearing a very professional detective suit came up to them and an ambulance nearby gives Sarah a blanket. Sherlock, with not a single expression on his face, looks to the detective and talks to him. Jocelyn, John and Sarah remain at one corner and after being questioned by the police, it seems that Jocelyn has no other use to anyone else in the scene.  She waits for Sherlock, though. She thinks it is a mistake to wait for him because when he comes back to them and still sees Jocelyn around, he rolls his eyes. “I specifically told you to stay where you were. Now, you almost got strangled to death.” He bluntly says, a sharp tongue with every word.

She sighs audibly through her mouth. “Well, I wasn’t just going to sit there and do nothing.”

He groans. “Well, instead of that, you got  _hurt_  and still managed to do nothing.” He spits.

If John was mistaken, that is one of the few times that Sherlock has ever shown care towards someone. In his own level of care, that is. Even if it was followed by an insult. So, he goes to her defense. “She did knock her chair over. Something you didn’t think of. Got Sarah to safety sooner.” He tells him.

Sherlock visibly clenches his jaw and huffs. “Baker Street, now. The case isn’t over.” He grumbles, swiveling around to start walking off to the end of street where cabs stop. Jocelyn goes to follow him, but Sherlock shakes his head without looking back. “No, get your own cab. I need to think.” He says, without the extension of  _‘I cannot focus while being in your presence’_  only because he thinks that the statement will mislead her. “John, take your lady friend home. I think she’s seen enough for tonight.”

She just doesn’t listen, which makes Sherlock frustrated even more. She just quickens her pace to catch up with him and huffs. “I won’t be loud.” She promises.

“You always say that.” He says without thinking, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. He almost curses aloud from his slip up. He never wants her to know that he still remembers.

Jocelyn just grins.  _So much for not reminiscing in the past._  She doesn’t say anything else and watches as Sherlock calls a taxi. John is surprised when Sherlock opens the cab door for him and Sarah, but nods in appreciation. The consulting detective just presses his lips together awkwardly and waits for them to slip onto the leather seats of the taxi. He closes the car door and watches as the taxi drives off.

“You take another cab. I need to think.” He tells Jocelyn, finally acknowledging her first-hand.

She frowns, but just lets Sherlock be. While waiting for another cab to pass by, Sherlock glances at her. He finally looks at her. All while she looks around for any sign of a cab wondering down. The streets were empty and quiet with the faint sound of the cars parked near the crime scene they just have been to. Sherlock is somewhat...  _bothered_  by how his mind is slowing down. Only by observing her physique, her familiarity. Sherlock relaxes, for an unknown reason. Unknown, in a sense that he doesn’t understand it. He dislikes not understanding. He sees how her black stockings had a slight patch of white powder on it, not from any drugs. Too shiny for cocaine, but enough for powdered sugar.  _Doughnuts_. Her brunette hair is still a slight mess from the sleep she had just woken from, but they were still tied up into a half-up do. Her dress is short, cutting right above the stocking-covered knee. Sherlock finds himself distracted, his chest caving in from how he is starting to remember _. No, no, no. I cannot have this right now. I cannot deal with her right now. I can never again._

When she turns back to look at him, his expression turns cold. She can almost feel his disinclination and it makes her cower down. Jocelyn is well aware of Sherlock inability to socialize, and she also knew that what she did to Sherlock was unacceptable. It was eight years ago, she didn’t think it still mattered to him.  _Is that her being insensitive?_  She wants to learn so much more about Sherlock, now that eight years have separated them.

Overall, he is still the same Sherlock she met eight years ago. Someone who had stage fright, even though he could play the violin like no other. Someone who didn’t understand emotions, even though he makes music with one or two too many. Someone who made deductions about random people in café’s just for the hell of it. Someone who read too many books to fill his head with, or did countless of experiments for his own love of Science. Someone who Jocelyn once adored, more than anything in the world.

Only much colder.

_And he hates her with every fiber of his being._

They take separate cabs, Sherlock relaxes back into his seat and closes his eyes for a fleeting moment. He is very exhausted, but he never lets anyone know since John has this certain notion about him that he is never tired even though he lacked sleep and energy. Sherlock understood his body all too well. His proper diet, sleeping patterns and hygiene. He didn’t feel the need to worry about the physical aspect about himself so he pays them no mind, albeit knowing a lot.

When he opens his eyes, he sighs when he finds himself seated at Mycroft’s office yet again. Tea is laid out in front of him while Mycroft sat in his own seat at the opposite of the table. His brother is leaning back into his chair with an amused smile. Sherlock stares back at him with a deadpanned look. “What is it now?’ He impatiently asks, not really liking it when he’s trapped inside his own mind palace.

He just continues to smile, in a more realistic mocking way instead of the genuine one that Sherlock only memorized from his early childhood. “You saved her life.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “I did nothing of the sort.”

“Our dear Jocelyn was almost strangled to death. You could’ve been shot while throwing yourself at the attacker, Aware of the escaped criminal behind you?” He asks, looking down at the table and now, the tea set was replaced by a game of chess. The chess pieces were in their rightful places for the start of the game. Mycroft’s pieces were white so he makes a move with his knight.

Sherlock grimaces at Mycroft’s nickname for Jocelyn. And of course, he was aware of the possible shooter behind him. He didn’t want to admit it to his Mycroft consciousness, and just moves one of his pawns.

Nevertheless, Mycroft still notices, so he lets out a short hum while smiling. “You were absolutely terrified.” He moves his pawn.

“I was not,” he protests, moving his tower forwards.

“But you were.” His brother insists, taking his turn with the game.

Sherlock smacks his lips together and calmly takes his turn. “John would be upset if I let her die.”

Mycroft lets out a deep laugh. “I’m almost certain that you’re not referring to Dr. Watson this time.” He says, settling his queen four squares away from Sherlock’s king.

Sherlock frowned, staring at his mind’s version of his brother. It vexes him how his brother is always right, both in real life and in his mind palace. He only sighs, lifting one of the bishops. “Miss Jocelyn Fray is none of my concern. I simply tried my best to aid her situation, in which case was beneficial in regards of John’s female companion.” He says with no trace of emotion, not wanting to break in front of his own consciousness. “Dr. Watson might have found it pleasing that Miss Fray is alive, considering their fast formation of a bond. A friendship, if you will.” He mocked with a sour expression. “Your move.”

Mycroft clicked his tongue, raising his brows as he let out a breath, like a realistic human. Same mannerism with the real version. “You’re not known for your sentimentality, brother mine. Maybe it’s best if you try to talk to her. Discuss things, once and for all. Your move.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Why does everyone want me to speak to her?”

“On the contrary, Sherlock.  _‘Everyone’_ is only Miss Jocelyn in your palace version of the Musgrave Hall flat, and me inside this office.” He looks around his own workplace. “Seems very dramatic to say that everyone wants you to speak to her, all while knowing that we’re only copies of your consciousness. Checkmate.” He is quite smug with his response when Sherlock leans back on his seat.

“You’re suggesting that I want to speak to her?” He questions, turning his head to the left for only a bit.

Mycroft taps the desk with his slender fingers. “I’m suggesting that you need to. It’s  _killing_  you inside to know, isn’t it?” He challenges him. “To know why she did it.”

“She doesn’t concern me, not anymore. It’s been years.” He simply says.

“And yet that one place inside your head, decided to open. What do you make of that, brother mine?” He asks, referring to the flat in Musgrave Hall.

“It happens.”

His brother lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he straightens his suit. “No, Sherlock. It does not. You can delete and store many memories, yet you keep this one. One that you claim is irrelevant to your everyday living. Wonder why.”

Sherlock is confused, he rarely ever is. When he realizes what Mycroft means, he laughs incredulously. He shakes his head, a confident grin on his face. “You’re not really insinuating that I have feelings for her?” He asks, finding it very amusing how Mycroft seems to think that way. “Oh, feelings. Feelings are  _boring_. They are overrated and irrelevant to one’s life. Life is about intelligence and intellect, to cope with every fact and happenings. Feelings fill a human’s head with all different sorts of misguidance, clouding one’s judgment. Why would I need certain emotions in my life? I’m Sherlock Holmes,” He points out as if it’ll make sense. In his head, it does, and they are inside his mind after all.

“That, you are. She knows that very well.” He clears his throat. “So why do you think she stuck by you for years?”

The consulting detective furrows his brows. “I entered University five months before graduation.” He clarifies.

Mycroft grins. “I was not referring to the physical form of Miss Fray, in my last sentence.” He finally tells him. “Make do, brother mine.”

His words struck through Sherlock and even made him gasp and open his eyes. Suddenly, he is back inside the back of a cab. The cabbie driver glances at him through the rear view mirror. “You alright, Mister?” He asks him.

Sherlock swallows and tries to compose himself by fixing his coat around himself. “Fine. Stop at that corner.” He can’t believe he lost in a game of chess, against himself.

***

Jocelyn reaches Baker Street and is greeted by Mrs. Hudson, smiling at the landlady. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson. How are you?” She asks her sweetly.

“Oh, I’m doing fine, love. Where are the boys?” Mrs. Hudson is soon leading her to her own flat, in which she just grins at before sitting near the table.

She thanks her when she starts pouring her some tea. Mrs. Hudson is now noticing how disarrayed she looks. “John went with his date back at her place; I guess Sherlock is off somewhere. They’ll be back soon, maybe.” She assures. Jocelyn knows that Mrs. Hudson is basically a mother to both Sherlock and John. The landlady is always concerned of their wellbeing.

The proprietor just nods and sits in front of her. “Are you quite alright, dear? You seem very pale. Have some tea, you’ll feel better.” She watches as Jocelyn sips her tea and sighs in relief, liking how the tea is on her taste buds, burning sweetly.

“Just got caught up in a crossfire,” she half-jokes, bringing her tea up to her lips.

Mrs. Hudson could not help but asking her one question. “Are you Sherlock’s girlfriend?” Says Mrs. Hudson with an excited smile.

She choked on her tea and accidentally swallows the hot liquid faster than anticipated. Mrs. Hudson just gave her a handkerchief and a glass of water, worried. “Have I said something wrong?”

 _Yes, actually. Why does everyone assume that Sherlock and I are together?_ Jocelyn thinks, but did not want to upset her at all. Therefore, she just shakes her head. “No, no. Of course not.” She laughs nervously. “Sherlock and I... we’re not together.” She mutters and looks down, not wanting to mention things from their past. She didn’t want Mrs. Hudson to get the wrong idea. “Why did you ask? I only came here today.” She kindly asks.

Mrs. Hudson thinks about it. “I believe John has mentioned it to me earlier.” Her words make Jocelyn sigh, John also had a loud mouth like his sister. “You and Sherlock were once together?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson. We never were together. We knew each other back in Uni, though.” She sips her tea again.

“Oh,” the landlady simply says. “Well, you don’t have to tell me everything, dear. Some things, you must keep to yourself.” She stands and gently pats Jocelyn’s shoulder. “Finish up, I’ll wash the cups, don’t worry. Probably should get some rest, dear.” She smiles warmly at the brown-haired woman.

Jocelyn thanks her again, still offering to help her clean up but the landlady insists. She leaves her home and climbs up the stairs to John and Sherlock’s flat. Seeing the mess, she starts cleaning up. It’s part of her instinct to clean up anything that seems out of place for her. Picking up books and settling them into crates while she listens to music playing in the radio.

While cleaning, she sees a violin case and her heart warms. She does recall John saying that Sherlock still plays, but she has never seen that violin case in years. He never changed it, since the slight scratch at the bottom was still there, from Jocelyn dropping the case like the clumsy person she is. Thankfully, the violin wasn’t in it at the time. She chuckles at the memory and traces her fingertips against the scratch. Without thinking too much about it, she opens the case and it reveals the polished violin that Sherlock owns. He never changed anything, never bought anything new. And by the looks of it, he still cleans it probably every day. She picks up the violin and and bow, settling it between her chin and shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

She gasps, immediately dropping the violin in surprise, but a hand caught the long bridge of the instrument before it could break on the ground. Sherlock lifts the violin back near his chest from his knee level, and watches Jocelyn turn around to look at him. “I was cleaning.” She urgently says. “And I saw the violin.”

The detective on knotted his brows together. “If you’re going to be staying in Baker Street, it’s awfully preferred for you not to touch anything that may be part of my belongings.” His voice is deep and authoritative. “You almost dropped it.”

“You snuck up on me. Again.” She settles her hands on her hips.

Sherlock walks past her to put the violin back in its case. “I never deemed it necessary to make my presence known. Especially not to you.” He mutters the last part.

Jocelyn gives up and just strides away from him, to which he looks back and watches her walk up the stairs to John’s room. Sherlock looks away and just stares at his violin for a few seconds. He never replaced it, he always wondered why. It’s just an object, there are millions other creations similar to this violin, and maybe some are even better. He remembers how she used to take his violin. Back then, it didn’t bother him. He taught her how to play, too. She used to teach him how to play piano, even though he knew perfectly well how to. He remembers how she is so focused into teaching him, and Sherlock would only stare at her. When it would be his turn to play, he pretends not to know. Just so Jocelyn could try to teach him again, extending their time. 

He was so naive back then, so weak-minded. He thinks his younger version is so stupid. Sherlock doesn’t just think, he believes that he was. He couldn’t believe that he let that woman do what she did to him.

However, he can’t believe that Mycroft is correct; he can delete and store many memories, yet he never deleted anything that involved the woman upstairs. Now, he’s wondering why.

He closes the violin case and turns off the white noise from the radio.


	4. The Memories

“I’ve just settled in, don’t you worry.” Jocelyn chuckles, holding her phone to her ear. “It’s quite comfortable here. Swing by in two weeks, yeah?”

“John always offers that. Maybe this time, I might.” Jocelyn can hear the smile on Harry’s face.

“He’s quite a man, as you said. He has a girlfriend now.” She teases, trying to get back at how John gossiped about her and Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson.

“Ooh, I should ask him.” Harry lets out a laugh. “Anyway, John’s fine. How about his flatmate? Heard he was an odd one.” She says and Jocelyn can hear her chopping some vegetables for lunch probably.

Jocelyn hesitates, but why would she hold back? It isn’t like there’s something between them anymore. Anymore? She doesn’t know so she disregards that fact. “Well, I actually know his flat mate back in Uni. Yeah, we graduated together.”

Harry hummed. “Really? Wow, well that’s a big coincidence. You two close before?”

“I guess we were? Can’t really say the same now. We lost touch after Uni.”  _Lost touch, what a great way to put it._  She feels awful for using those kinds of words.

“Oh, well, maybe you two will be close again.” She says. “Who knows?”

Jocelyn doubts it as she lets out a sigh. “He’s not really the friendly type.”

Harry just lets out a laugh. “How did you two become friends in the first place, then?” She rhetorically tells her, making Jocelyn think about her words carefully. “Got to go. Got a lunch date.”

“So soon after Clara?” Jocelyn asks, a bit concerned about her friend.

“It’s nothing serious, love. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah? Be safe!” She says and before Jocelyn speaks, she hangs up. Harry does that sometimes.

Jocelyn sets her phone on the table and sits on the edge of the bed. She feels the sheets and how soft it is, sighing in relief as she lies back. She slept here earlier, but she still likes the feel of it.

“Comfortable?”

Jocelyn sits upright and meets with John, who’s smiling widely and had his arms crossed. She just laughs. “Well, I basically just became a corpse on here earlier. Didn’t get to appreciate it that much. Jet lag does that, I heard.” She says. “Your sister just called.”

“Oh?” John asks, shifting from one foot to another. “Any news?”

She just laughs and supports her weight by holding herself up with her arms behind her, palms against the sheets. “She just called to check up on me.”

“Well, at least she checks up on  _you_.” He teases.

“How’s Sarah?”

John just smiles at her. “She’s alright. I don’t think I have a next date with her. With what happened and all.” He frowns. “It’s still a bit surprising how you chose to stay, considering what just happened earlier.” He starts, walking inside the room. “So, why did you?”

“Why did  _you_?” She repeats the same question to him, which makes John chuckle.

John shakes his head slowly, standing a few feet away from her as she sits on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think I need to mention that Sherlock will be very difficult to live with.”

She nods, understanding what he means. “Yeah, I know.”

John raises his brow. “You’ve...  _lived_  with him before?”

She recalls what she says and mentally curses at her slip up. “Uh, I’m... well, no.” She clears her throat.

Dr. Watson has an amused little smile on his face. “Right, okay.” He goes along with it. “Get some rest. You had a long day.”

The woman just nods and watches John close the door behind him as he left his room. She turns off the lamp and lies down on the bed.

Sherlock is sat on the floor with his legs crossed. His eyes were shut as he tries to organize his mind. It is difficult, especially since one of the awful parts in his palace is triggered to unleash some memories he’d most likely hate to recall. John walks down the stairs and catches sight of his flatmate. He is about to walk to the kitchen to eat some of the food that Jocelyn had prepared for them, but decides to stop walking. He turns back to Sherlock and disturbs his meditation. “She used to live with you?”

Sherlock barely pays attention to him, and that says a lot. “Who?”

“Jocelyn, she used to live with you. In the same flat.” He presses on the information she just told him. Her hesitant words were enough as a confirmation.

Sherlock opens his eyes, frustrated. “Is that what she fed to you?” He had a low growl, hating how she informed his Doctor friend of their brief domesticity, but he did not confirm nor deny the statement.

“No. She said no, but she was lying. To protect you, for some reason.” He shrugs, taking a seat on the table near where Sherlock sat by.

“Why does it matter if she told the truth or not? It’s insignificant.”

“Sherlock—” he pauses, not believing every word he’s saying. “You had a live-in partner.”

Sherlock turns to him with a puzzled look. “Isn’t that what you are? What’s the difference?”

“I—” he stops and sighs, looking down at the ground. “It’s different, between you and me. And you keep shifting the topic. Your bloody ex is in the flat and you have nothing to say?

He only rolls his eyes and stands on his feet. “She is not my...  _ex_.” He grimaces at the term, too modernized for him.  _Too human, it is awful_. “She is not my anything. She is simply a person I went to University with, that’s the lot of it.” He calmly says, settling his arms behind him. “I would say that I’m not overly bothered by your concern of what Miss Fray’s position is in my unfortunate existing life, but it appears that I am.” He bores his icy blue eyes. “Why are you meddling? You never seem to do so. Don’t make me add you to the list of people that Mycroft has hired to monitor me.”

John pauses, jaw clenching as he stares back at Sherlock. “I have no idea, but something in my gut is telling me that you’ll make a big mistake.”

Sherlock scoffs. “You and thousands of other official men.”

His flatmate groans. “I’m being serious here, Sherlock!”

“So am I. My life is none of your business.” He states.

“I know it isn’t, Sherlock, but  _dear God above_ ; make the right choice.” He sighs. “Whatever happened between you and Jocelyn, it’s been years. Surely, you’ve moved on. You can start again—”

“John,” he says in a stern tone. “I would advise you not tell me what to do.”

John takes in his intimidating stance. He’s seen far worse, so it didn’t bother him. “She’s right there.” He points upstairs as if it would make sense.

“And? What are you expecting me to do?” He asks, staring at John with an expectant expression. “Waltz inside and tell her that everything she has ever done to me— _is forgiven_?” He towers over Dr. Watson, who looks up at him with a mirroring expression.

From his tone, John softens. “What happened? What did she do?” He asks quietly, still having his eyes locked with the detective’s.

Sherlock’s face relaxes, diverting his gaze from John but stares right ahead of himself. He swallows, pausing for a split second before his expression turned cold. “You never should have let her stay.” He sneers before walking past John, leaving the flat and Baker Street altogether. John stands there, puzzled. He has no idea what Sherlock meant, but it was no denying that it left him more curious.

A few hours later, Jocelyn finds herself awake at night. She sits up and pushes her hair back when some falls to her face. She considers it for a moment, and just stands. Her bare feet were cold from the ground, making her shiver. She takes her small pencil case and slowly opened the door. All the lights are off, so she resumes walking to the living room. The crates were gone; one of the men probably has taken it back to the rightful owners. She looks around and sees that the flat is empty, John is asleep in Sherlock’s room. She opens the window and stands in front of it. Jocelyn opens her small pink pencil case and takes out a stick and a lighter. She set the cigarette between her plump lips, sparked a flame from the lighter, burning the tip of her death stick, and takes a drag. She slips the lighter back into the pencil case, hiding it as she held the cigarette between his fingers. She looks out of the window and just settles in the dark, with only the moonlight from outside shining over her.

She wonders what kind of game the universe is playing. Putting her and Sherlock in the same house after eight years. She lets out a breath, smoke coming out of his mouth and nose. Nasty, probably to other people. It relaxes Jocelyn. Darkly enough, the thought of dying  _sooner_.

She turns around and hides her cigarette behind her when the light turns on. She watches as Sherlock briefly glances at her and looks away, taking off his coat. He probably figured her out already, so it was no use for her to hide the cigarette that she possessed. Therefore, she stops hiding and takes another drag, exhaling through the window.

“Mrs. Hudson is very strict with the no smoking rule.” He says, proceeding to take a seat near the table, looking through the files that he is carrying.

“I take it that you don’t smoke anymore?” She smiles, trying to urge him to hold a conversation with her.

Surprisingly, he does. He rolls his sleeves up and shows some patches on his forearm. “Nicotine patches. Gives you the same high, minus the burnt lungs.” He muttered, rolling them back in place.

She nods, impressed. “Well, I don’t think you’re supposed to have four patches at once.” She mentions, taking another long drag and exhaling through her mouth.

“It’s a four patch problem to a two patch solution.” He says, flipping through pages of his folders. 

Jocelyn just crushes the end of the cigarette, fully extinguishing the burning light of the stick. She throws the leftover into a trash bin, sitting down on the couch. Sherlock knows, from the way the chair’s spring creaked to the way her weight is settled into the softness of the chair that she is sitting in his.

He stays quiet. John’s words kept ringing in his head and he really wants to ignore them. However, his mind, it refuses to ignore anything of relation towards Jocelyn Fray. Mycroft’s voice in his head, it’s still the same as Sherlock’s thoughts. He dislikes it whenever his intellect and emotions start fighting; now it’s giving him mixed thinking and feelings. He has no idea how to handle himself, whenever Jocelyn is present in his mind.

He hesitates. “John is currently asleep inside my room, for solely one reason.”

Jocelyn raises her brow. “And that is?”

From her tone, he shifts in his seat and lets out a long audible breath through his mouth. “To lend his room to a guest. Which in this case, is you. Why are you not currently inside his room?” There is a slight curious tone to his question, almost as if he needs to know.

She lets out a cough and pulls her thighs to her chest, her feet is cold from the temperature of the floor. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Sherlock says nothing as he flips through the pages of the files he brought home.

Jocelyn cranes her head towards him. “So... where’d you go earlier?” She asks since he only got home, and it is two in the morning.

The consulting detective almost rolls his eyes, but he refrains as he clicks his tongue. “I have another case. Well, cases. Scotland Yard assigned me a few.” By few, he meant sixteen. Sherlock would rather not show off that he has solved them all in fewer than fourteen minutes. None of them was interesting enough.

“Ooh, so you’re a very big deal here now, huh?” She muses, leaning back into the softness of the couch.

“Not quite. Trying to keep a low profile.”  _Talk to her. What are you doing?_

“Ah, no point as to asking how you’ve been then?” She says, insinuating that he’s doing well while being in London.

“Don’t see the use of it. Irrelevant information.” He says without turning to look at her.

Jocelyn grins and lets out a giggle. The sound makes Sherlock discreetly look at her from his peripheral vision. She is smiling widely, eyes towards the carpet as she thinks to herself. “You used to do that quite a lot.”

“Do what?”

“Brush things off because they’re not important. You do that sometimes.” She tells him.

Sherlock pauses and blinks, processing her words. He stays silent for a moment, so she looks back at him. He sees her and turns away. “I delete unimportant things. Surely, you remember that.”

“Yes, I do. Too well.” She smiles and leans back again. Jocelyn hesitates, looking out the window from behind her to estimate the time. “Sherlock,”

He tries not to think too much about what she just told him. “What is it?”

“I’ve missed you, you know?” She quietly says.

Her words finally make him stop looking through the files he had. His mind stopped rotating its axis and he found himself staring ahead of him. He does this for fourteen seconds. Sherlock barely hears her walk towards him, sitting on the desk he’s been working on. He looks up at her and presses his back against the chair he had. Jocelyn looks down at him, trying to maintain eye contact with those blue eyes he had. Those cold blue eyes. She always wondered what he might be thinking at the moment. Probably too much all at once.

Sherlock’s face is emotionless, but his mind went to panic after those few seconds of silence.  _Miss me? Why on earth would she miss me? After what she did, she has no right to miss me._  So many questions flood his mind due to how she spoke and what came out of her two rosy lips. He realizes that he’s now just staring at her, his teeth gritting. “Interesting choice of word;  _miss_.” He looks away and stands up, the sound of the chair being pushed back fills both their ears from the quiet. Sherlock reaches for the button of his blazer to undo one in order to open it, revealing the white button-up underneath. He walks to the front of the mirror. He can feel anger bubbling up inside him, but remains calm and collected. He is not about to let this woman realize how much she affects him ever since she arrived, as par to Dr. Watson’s request of her stay. “Do you know what other synonyms the word ‘miss’ has?” He asks, not looking back as he puts his hands behind him in a very formal way.

Jocelyn wets her lips, thinking about it. She is about to answer when he interrupts her.

“Longing. Do you know what ordinary humans do when they  _long_  for something?” He asks again, pausing. “No, you don’t. Of course, you don’t. Why should you?” He rhetorically asks, the detestation is evident in his tone now. Jocelyn realizes that he really is angry towards her and it makes her feel upset. Sherlock notices this whilst looking into the mirror and rolls his eyes. “Oh, spare me your dejection, Miss Fray.” He scoffs and turns around.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry—”

“I don’t need apologies. Any expression of regret from you will be quickly dismissed since it does not matter, so if you please,” he gestures towards the stairs and wordlessly asks her to go to John’s room and leave him alone.

Jocelyn’s eyes twitch, blinking at him before taking a step forward. Sherlock holds his head up high, eyes downward towards her. The tips of both of their feet were inches away from each other. He can’t seem to remember the last time he had her up this close in so many year, but knowing his mind, he might recall an incident or two. Her face softens, frowning. “If you don’t wish to speak about this, then I will never bring it up again.” She promises. “If you want to forget the past, then go ahead. I won’t stop you.” She tells him, knowing that he has the capability of doing so. Although, she doesn’t quite understand why he still has some memories of her intact. Surely, she expected him not to remember her face from the first time they saw each other in eight years. “I just want to hear you say it.”

“What would you like me to say in order to stop this nonsense?” His deep voice sent shivers down her spine.

Jocelyn falters.  _Nonsense_. This all doesn’t seem that important to the man. “That you won’t question it.”

He furrows his brows. “Question what?”

“Why I left.” She simply says, giving him a small sad smile as he takes one last glance at him before proceeding upstairs. The sound of her footsteps eases into his ears as he blinks a couple of times, her words repeating itself over and over.

 _She left. Yes, that’s what she did._  Jocelyn Fray, at nineteen, managed to leave Sherlock Holmes, also nineteen. Now, twenty-seven, Mr. Holmes has done quite well during her absence and did not question the fact that she never once came back. She left him, with no explanation, no regards to what his thoughts may be of the matter, and it left Sherlock empty-handed. Both clueless to the reason why and how his Musgrave Hall flat was now empty.

\--

“Why did you leave your hometown?” Sherlock asked, holding a cup of coffee as the two of them sat down on a park bench, watching different families with children and dogs walk and run around to spend quality time with each other. It was early in the morning when Jocelyn received a text from Sherlock Holmes himself to have casual coffee, since he was planning to go outside anyway. Might as well invite her.

Jocelyn, with her bright blue hair tied into a messy up-do since Sherlock texted quite early, just hummed and took a bite of the apple she brought with her. Earlier, she was just confused as to why he invited her so early, using a text that says,  _‘You’re needed. Park bench, Harrington Park. SH’_  and she only came because he said that she’s needed. “I just wanted to leave Cheshire, you know? Family issues and all that.”

It’s been almost a week since they’ve first met and both have warmed up to each other. Sherlock surprised himself, he wasn’t the friendly type. Hell, his roommate already disliked him, along with the other jocks. Sebastian Wilkes doesn’t really have the right aura for company. Jocelyn, however, has enjoyed his unusual behavior for four days now. Their recital is in three days, and neither was nervous about it. Both were confident in each other’s abilities and none has doubt for the other. Jocelyn may have underestimated him before they met, but she took everything back after spending a whole hour with him. Sherlock perceives Jocelyn as another subcategory of humans. Those of which whom Sherlock tolerates and even treats in a way that he has never treated anyone else. Other people in that category may be Mycroft, his parents and…  _Jocelyn_. No one else, it was quite odd to be so trusting this quick into knowing who he or she is. Moreover, Sherlock was never one who liked getting attention. This woman’s bright blue hair was the exact opposite of not catching attention. He didn’t mind though. He never minded.

“Family issues?” He pressed.

She only snorted. “It’ll bore you, trust me.” She waved him off.

“I do.” He simply answered without hesitation. “It won’t.”

She looked at him with a pleased expression and Sherlock feels successful. However, of what? He did not understand. “My mother is here, in this part of London.” She said. “I miss her, so I came here.”

“You  _missed_  her?” Sherlock slowly worded.

She nodded. “Yes, it’s when a person longs for someone. Or something.” She informed him. He already knew the operational meaning of missing a person, but not in the way that she described it.

“So you came to see her?” Sherlock asked carefully, taking in every detail. “Because you missed her?”

Jocelyn let out a small laugh. “Of course, silly.” She nudged his shoulder with hers, an amused smile on her face. “That’s what people do when they miss someone. Paying them visits.”

“Right.” He agreed, seeing the logic in it. Emotions and sentimentality, it made life quite complex. To Sherlock, the complexity of it may be frustrating but to Jocelyn, it was beautiful. “How is that a family issue, then?”

“My father, he did not want me to come visit her. Said that I should’ve stayed in Cheshire. I didn’t want to live with him anymore because…” She pauses, looking away from Sherlock. “Personal reasons, I guess. So I moved here, the minute I turned eighteen.”

Sherlock glanced at her, seeing how she watched families in front of her with a longing expression. It was quite obvious how she did not have the childhood that every young person deserved. He could see it in her eyes. Sherlock was quite privileged, having two parents who immensely love each other and an elder brother who gives him advice every now and then. Jocelyn had no one except her mother. She was an only child after all, her father did not want any children after her. It made growing up quite lonely.

He sensed her hesitance, so decided to change the subject. “I believe you have a question for me.”

“Why are we here, Sherlock?” She asked after swallowing down her bite from the apple. “You said you needed me.”

“I didn’t say  _I_  needed you. I said you were needed.” He shortly said.

Jocelyn paused.  _Did that not mean the same thing?_ “By who?”

Sherlock took a piece of paper from his jacket and gave it to her. “Your mother is paralyzed. Is she not?”

Jocelyn’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes… how did you know that?” She asked and started to read the words written on the paper. “This… this is the report of my mother’s missing diamond ring from six years ago. What’s so relevant about this? It was never found.” She asked, confused as the casual wind blew on their faces, cooling her cheeks and reddening them. She tried to process it for a second. “How did you get this?” She held the paper up.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a small box, passing it to her without saying anything. Jocelyn parts her lips, taking the box and unlacing the ribbon wrapped around it. She opened it and widened her eyes. “Sherlock, is that—”

“Yes.”

She sputtered. “You… you found it?” She took the ring and examined it, seeing the small engraving of  _‘j’taime’_ on the inside of the ring. “H-how did you find it?” She asked, covering her mouth with her gloved hand.

Sherlock took in her shocked expression and felt slight panic. “Do you not like it? Did you not want it found?” He quickly asked.

“No, I-I mean, yes, I did want it found. But how did you find it?” She said, making a sound of disbelief in between.

“I simply retraced what your mother said in the rapport. I’ll spare you the long detail.” The great lengths he went through in finding the missing diamond ring that her mother beloved, it needn’t be mentioned. “Agree to disagree?”

She just grinned widely and stood up. Sherlock looked at her with puzzlement, until she pulled him to his feet and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a warm embrace. She sighed, the cold air turning into a small fog in front of her lips as she closed her eyes. “Thank you, Sherlock. You have no idea how happy this makes me.” She expressed and hugged him tighter.

He was clueless into what to do. Nobody ever embraces him this way, not even his mother since he never let her do so. Therefore, he awkwardly placed his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. They melted into each other perfectly, and Sherlock took his time to memorize the perfume that she always used. He sometimes would smell it the minute she enters a room, not because she put way too much on, but because he always felt the need to pay attention. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Fray.”

“You better stop calling me that, Sherl.” She mused, chuckling into his hair before she pulled away. _Too soon_ , he thought.

“Don’t call me Sherl. It’s fairly ridiculous to hear.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll call you that a lot.” Jocelyn had the biggest smile on her face, her eyes turned to slits. “You have no idea how happy you’ll make my mother, she might even crack a smile for the first time in years.” She told him, looking down at the ring that Sherlock so graciously found. Jocelyn looked very happy that it made Sherlock smile, his heart warming. He somewhat found it pleasing to see her smile, and so he thought of many other ways to keep that smile etched onto her face. And he really did, he succeeded.  _Every single time._

\--

“I won’t question it.” Sherlock speaks, making her stop from the top of the stairs. “I’ve never questioned it before, Miss Fray. Make no mistake.” He claims. “And I simply do not care about your reason.”

Jocelyn lets out an easy breath through her nose and chooses not to say anything. Sherlock hears her footsteps continue and the small quiet sound of the door closing. He holds his head up high and just closes his eyes briefly. He hates this, no, he  _loathes_  the thought of memories surfacing. He loathes the fact that he has to live with her presence—her real presence—for the next two weeks.

It was finally morning a few hours later. John gets up with a groan. His back felt sore since Sherlock likes having a hard mattress apparently. John might have it replaced but his flatmate would definitely dislike the idea. He stands up and lets out a steady breath as he walks out of the room.

“Morning,” Jocelyn greets John the minute he leaves Sherlock’s room, stretching his arms since he was not used to sleeping on his flatmate’s bed. “Sleep well?” She teases.

John just lets out an awkward laugh and walks in the kitchen, watching her make breakfast. He delightfully smiles upon seeing pancakes, smelling the syrup as well. “I got kidnapped yesterday, but it’s all fine.”

Jocelyn laughs and glances at him, her hair is pulled into a bun with some strands out loose. She still wore her baggy sleeping pants and wide sweater as she cooked, already feeling at home. “Work today?”

“Yes, I’ll possibly apologize to Sarah for the millionth time.” He sighs and looks around the flat. “Where’s Sherlock?”

She purses her lips. “Out. Probably the case from yesterday.” Her voice is quiet, already remembering what Sherlock said to her just a few hours before.

John nods, knowing that Sherlock has it all figured out, where the Jade pin was. The two of them discussed it already. He helps by boiling some water to make some tea, sensing how she is quiet at the mention of Sherlock. “You alright?”

His question made her look up in surprise, but quickly covered it with a smile. “Of course.” She says and the conversation is cut there.

They eat and have tea together, both making small talk but nothing really serious. Just to throw in some small laughs there to lighten the atmosphere. Jocelyn and Dr. Watson are very compatible. Not in the romantic sense, but more on the friendly aspects. Jocelyn can definitely tell the difference between him and his sister, and also the similarities. Both siblings are quite funny, yet John is still sometimes very serious. Harry could barely help it whenever she makes a joke out of anything. It is nice, to observe little details such as that.

Apparently, Jocelyn isn’t the only one who’s good at observing. John clears his throat. “You sure you’re alright?” He sips his tea while keeping his eye on her.

She nods, smiling. “Fine.”

John leans back on his seat. “You don’t seem fine?”

Jocelyn locks gazes with him. “Sherlock doesn’t want me to be here, and I really do think that I shouldn’t be.” She quietly says.

John remembers what Sherlock told him yesterday, about how he never should have let Jocelyn stay in Baker Street. He didn’t quite understand at the time, why Sherlock disliked her so much. Sherlock never really expresses distastes towards a specific person. Anderson might be an exception since he really is annoying. Jocelyn, however, seems very lovely and unlikely to do anything awful. Much less to Sherlock, someone who doesn’t exactly hold resentments. Not because he never feels angry towards someone, but because he deems it unnecessary and time consuming to hold grudges.

He sighs, going straight to the point. “If it doesn’t ruin your morning, what really happened between you two?” He asks, biting into the toast he picked up from his plate. “He’s very...  _cautious_  when it comes to you.” He words carefully.

Jocelyn bit her lip, not really sure if she should just tell the truth. Sherlock might not be pleased if John finds out about their past. “I’m not sure if Sherlock would like me to chatting about our Uni days.” She slightly laughs it off.

John nods. “Well, whatever it was that happened, as I said, Sherlock probably moved on already.”

She just gives him a small smile, sipping her tea. “Are you trying to set us up?”

“What? No, of course not.” He nervously laughs. “No, I... just simply am curious. By nature. I live with a consulting detective that talks too much and too little, you know how it is.”

A small chuckle leaves her lips, shaking her head. There’s no point to deny the fact that Sherlock and Jocelyn used to live under the same roof as well, much like John and Sherlock’s situation. “If you must know, I didn’t live with Sherlock because he and I were... romantically involved.” She carefully said, looking at John.

Dr. Watson only raised his brows, looking away to Jocelyn’s left in wonder. “Oh,” he paused. “Then —  _ah_  — how did you end up living together?” John asks.

She only looks down at her plate. “To be quite frank, I wasn’t sure how.” She muttered. “It just kind of happened, really.”

“What just kind of happened?” A voice from the door right behind Jocelyn erupted, making her turn.

John saves her by adding a question. “Where have you been?”

Sherlock moves to the fridge and is placing something inside the freezer. It was a zip lock containing God knows what. “Bank. I informed a woman about the seven-million-pound-worth pin currently tucked in between her strands of hair. It appeared as if she had an epileptic shock upon finding out. Then, to St. Bart's morgue." He briefly discussed with John, somewhat telling him that he should have been there. Sherlock glances at Jocelyn, who looks away and hides herself behind the teacup she was holding. The detective furrowed his brows,  _why was she staring?_

John just nods with a pleased and confused expression, as he looks back and forth between the two. He suddenly feels the tension and coughs awkwardly. “Case solved, then?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer him. Instead, he walks straight to his room. Probably to change his clothes. John learned a thing or two about Sherlock’s wardrobe. He’d wear baggy pants and a loose shirt if he has no current cases, and wears a formal button-up shirt along with dress pants and black shoes if he does. So, he’d anticipate what he’d be wearing once he leaves the room.

By the time Jocelyn was washing the dishes, Sherlock emerges from his door wearing a shirt and pajamas, covering it with his usual blue dressing gown. John didn’t get to see, since he’ll be late for work. Dr. Watson went about his routine with going to work, leaving the two of them behind. Sherlock looks very stressed, but it wasn’t as if Jocelyn saw him properly. The man practically creates a beeline towards the living room and says nothing to anyone. He just picks up his violin from his case and starts playing a slow and hypnotizing melody. Jocelyn feels the cold water on her bare hands; she naturally prefers washing without gloves on. She listens to the melody she never heard him play before. Her head slowly turns, but not to the full extent wherein she’s facing Sherlock. No, just enough to listen closer.

Jocelyn feels herself relax to the tune the he is playing. She missed days like these. Whenever Sherlock finds something difficult or awful or just feels bored, he’d play his violin. He even used to pull Jocelyn out of her room just to make her listen. Now, there’s nothing she could do for those days to be brought back. She wipes the plates and cups before putting them into place. This morning, Jocelyn took her time to memorize the things within the flat. Only to make it easier to place things. She knows how much Sherlock dislikes it whenever something is too fixed. Knowing the man, every room within the flat would be a mess, except his very own bedroom. Although, his current one is being occupied by John, it was still Sherlock’s room.

Jocelyn steps inside the living room and watches Sherlock slightly sway to the music, looking out the window and entirely ignoring her presence. Except, he isn’t. It was very difficult to ignore a woman with a very strong aura that radiates from her body. No, it isn’t just difficult, it is  _impossible_. He stops playing when Jocelyn takes another step, and she stops her movements as well.

Sherlock tilts his head to his left, looking at her through the corner of his eye. “What?”

She bites her lip. If Sherlock were shallow, he would definitely say that she looks like an utter mess. Hair sticking out from the tie she created, clothes baggy and giving her an irregular shape, no makeup so her skin is very pale, and the small bags of sleep deprivation underneath her eyes. She looks quite different from when she wore dresses, tight stockings, feather earrings and boots. Sherlock is naturally an observant man. He never noticed them solely because he’s interested with her appearance. No, that is not the case.

The woman cracks a smile. “I like what you’re playing.” She softly says. “It’s beautiful.”

Sherlock removes the violin from between his shoulder and chin, putting his arms down so the instrument hung from his left side as he held the bow on his right. “I’m only playing it correctly, according to the notes that Johann Bach has deliberately arranged. I’m simply following his work, doesn’t mean it’s—”

“No one else can play it that beautifully, Sherlock.” She cuts him off with a small laugh, slightly amused by how the man was justifying correct against beauty.

The detective felt confused. Last night was a disagreement, was it not? Last time Sherlock checked, humans don’t praise the ones who insulted them the night before. It isn’t in human nature to be so forgiving quickly. Not saying that he did something that Jocelyn should forgive, he had a right to speak his mind. He isn’t sure how to respond to her compliments now, and so he simply opens his mouth to say, “Seeing as you’ve clearly complimented my playing, John Watson believes that the correct response would be thanking you.” He informs her. Although, John Watson was not the first person to teach him that, the fact that Sherlock has hidden away memories of gratitude as taught by the woman in front of him, made it seem like the Doctor was the first.

She just crosses her arms and tries to suppress her laughter. Sherlock has a perplexed expression on his face. “Have I said something funny?”

Jocelyn just snorts and drops her hands, turning around to sit on John’s chair, shifting until the back of her knees were on one side of the armrest, and her feet dangling. Sherlock observes her suspiciously.  _What is she doing?_  She’s obviously not talking about last night and is pretending as if last night never happened. Sherlock didn’t notice himself staring for too long until Jocelyn looks away from the ceiling to have their eyes locked. She is humming a familiar tune and the man just blinks at her, his intense gaze is burning through her head.

Sherlock snaps out of his trance and impulsively reacts by tucking the violin back into its case. He doesn’t say a word before he goes straight back to his room and locks the door behind him. Jocelyn sighs and sits up, what has she done now?

Sherlock realizes how that was the longest time he’s been with Jocelyn for the past days. It really affected him and he desperately needs to be alone. He breathes while pressing his forehead against the door, and closes his eyes for a second.

“God, you’re a bloody  _moron_.”

He opens his eyes and suddenly, he is inside the flat once again. His head was against a mirror now, instead of the door in his room from Baker Street. He leans backward and straightens his back, turning his body until he is met by Jocelyn, wearing those ridiculous pink sleeping clothes that were twice her size. She is very fond of baggy clothes instead of lacey nighties, all while dressing as a total doll when going outside.  _Keeping up appearances_ , as she once said. Jocelyn looks at him with that familiar light in her eyes, a hint of mischief and the affection she once showed him.

Sherlock glares at her. “Moron?” He incredulously says.

“Yeah, you heard me. You’re a moron. For a genius, you’re a bit thick.” She walks to the radio and turns it on. It plays a Sinatra song, the same song that the real Jocelyn was humming along to. One of Jocelyn’s favorite songs to dance to. And she does just that, swaying slightly as she strides towards Sherlock, who is just observing her little movements. She extends her arm and has an amused expression written on her face.

Now, Sherlock realizes, this is his memory of the day she moved in.

She wore the same pink pajamas from years before; hair was bright blue and a mess. Sherlock looks down and he is wearing his formal plain dark green button-up, tucked into his black dress pants. He looks down at her hand and hesitantly reaches for it, slipping his hand into hers. She grins and pulls him to the middle of the living room. They were surrounded by some opened boxes of Jocelyn’s things, and Sherlock just looks down at her. Weak at the knees while he slides his other arm around her back. Jocelyn’s hand rests on Sherlock’s shoulder and they swayed to the music.

Jocelyn smiles up at him. “Sherlock,” she muttered and rests her head on his chest, eyes fluttering close. “ _My Sherlock_.” She quietly mumbles to herself, thinking that he wouldn’t hear but he did.  _Oh, he did_. Sherlock is breathing normally now and closes his eyes as well. Reliving a memory, one of his favorite memories such as this one, was one of his horrible addictions.

Sherlock opens his eyes and he’s in the middle of the room again. His arms were in a position as if he was waltzing with someone. He blinks and slowly puts his arms down, nose flaring in anger as he flops down on the bed. The pillow smells strongly like John’s cologne and he sighs, sitting up to turn the pillow so his nose wouldn’t be bothered. He didn’t sleep though, he only guiltily closes his eyes and didn’t want to believe that he’s trying to go back to that memory, listen to Sinatra and dance with her. He doesn’t like admitting that to himself because he hates her.  _He hates her so much_. He despises her with every cell in his body and now he has to live with her under the same roof, yet again.

Jocelyn enters the bathroom with a towel around her torso. She looks around and examines the shampoo and soaps. Of course, she brought her own. Jocelyn couldn’t help but chuckle at how Sherlock still uses the same brand of shampoo to take care of his curls. It’s quite adorable. She removes her towel and steps into the shower, turning the hot water on. She sighs, feeling the hot water relax her body. Her hair starts dripping as she applies shampoo onto her hair, and soap down her body. Jocelyn finishes her shower and steps outside with a towel around herself. She ascends to John’s room and quickly put her underwear on. She looks through the closet and picks out a blue dress, slipping it on. She sits herself on the edge of the bed, puts her black pumps on, taking her brush, and slowly runs down the brush through her curls. She goes downstairs while carrying her purse, writing down a note in case Sherlock cares enough to check on her — which he probably doesn’t, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure.

She puts her coat on and wraps her scarf around her neck. The woman goes outside and breathes in the London air, exhaling through her mouth. She turns to her left and starts walking. It’s been a while since the last time she was in London. Eight years ago, she went to New York to pursue her study for Forensics. All her hard work paid off and she is now known as Dr. Jocelyn Fray. Being called as Dr. Fray would be one of the greatest blessings she ever received. Hopefully, she’ll be relocated here. England is still her home country and it would be nice to serve well here. And honestly, there’s nothing for her in New York anymore, as much as she didn’t want to believe it.

She’s forgotten how beautiful London was, and is somewhat thankful that she scheduled the wrong date. If it was the right one, she’ll only get to stay in London for two days. Did she believe in fate? No, not very much. Fate is an illusion to give comfort to those who do not believe in determinism. Jocelyn believes in purpose, she knows that she only came here to attend that conference. When Harry first brought up her brother that currently lives in London, Jocelyn was very relieved. Maybe because that would mean that she doesn’t have to be stuck inside a hotel room by herself. Instead, she’d be in an actual flat that is owned by the brother of her closest friends. So Jocelyn agreed to it quickly, and let Harry discuss about John to her. Not only did she save money, she also gained a friend. John may be one of the kindest men she’s met in a long while.

When Dr. Watson arrives home, he sees Sherlock in the kitchen, a small paper in his hand. John takes off his coat and took in the disheveled appearance of his flatmate. John looks at him with a perplexed expression, watching Sherlock read whatever is on the paper. He isn’t sure how long Sherlock’s been staring at the writing, but when he noticed that the Doctor came home, he puts down the note on the table. “Lestrade hasn’t phoned. I’m growing incredibly bored.” Sherlock bitterly says, not even glancing at John’s way as he strode towards the living room, pacing.

John looks down at the note. “Wandering around, don’t wait up.” He mutters to himself as he reads the words, handwritten by Jocelyn. “She’s out, then?”

“Obviously, John. Read the note properly.” Sherlock mumbles and steps onto the table to cross towards the couch.

John has a hesitant grin on his face, wondering to himself. “You’re not going to tell me what happened between you two, are you?”

Sherlock stops and cranes his neck towards John. “What are you on about?” He furrows his brows.

John sighs. “Sherlock, I’m not stupid to believe that nothing happened between you and Jocelyn. I know that you two were friends, and may have been more than that—” Sherlock is about to interject so John raises a finger, “ _but_ , as your friend, I would tell you to just go for it.”

Sherlock, bemused, just observes him for a second. “Go for what?” He cluelessly asks as he retrieves a newspaper from the fireplace.

John sighs, closing his eyes briefly.  _Damn Holmes and his utter ignorance._  Dr. Watson has probably never met someone as genius and as ignorant as Sherlock Holmes. He still does not understand how a woman like Jocelyn could ever put up with a man like Sherlock. If that was true, then Jocelyn is much stronger than she looks. “Go for... asking her to have dinner!”

Sherlock scrunches his nose, but let’s John be. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you like her, don’t you?” John frustratingly asks him and just rubs his temple with his thumb.

The consulting detective just scoffs. “Who gave you that impression, John?” He holds the newspaper up and starts to read with his eyes, taking a seat by the table.

“You did.” He informs Sherlock, making him tense. “The first time Sebastian mentions her, you were angry. When you found out that she’ll be the one to stay here, you were angry. When I refused to transfer her to a different place, you were angry.” He says. “But when you came face to face with her, you were nervous.” He adds, making Sherlock furrow his brows at him, trying to recall his own behavior when Jocelyn arrived. “Now, I’m not like you. I can’t read body language thoroughly, but you were very anxious to see her again. Probably because of unresolved problems, yes?” John explains.

Sherlock is at loss for words, he didn’t really understand emotions or expressions, only the basic for his deductions. So he did not know how to counteract John’s understanding. John just walks over and finds it very difficult to discuss these kinds of things with a man like Sherlock, someone who finds relationships a waste of time. This is one of the reasons why he didn’t believe it at first that Jocelyn and him were involved. “Sherlock, there’s a reason why you two saw each other again. Chances like that are gone before you know it. You sure you don’t want to take it?”

Sherlock looks up at him as he’s seated on a chair. He slowly puts down his newspaper and locks his gaze with John’s eyes. “I would rather have my head bashed in, than take a chance.” His voice is low and menacing, but it just made John frown. It made him wonder just what Jocelyn did to him to make him resent her so much. In the length of knowing Sherlock, John has never seen so much hate in his eyes until now.

John just nods. “Alright, fine. I won’t bring it up again.” He tells him.

This made the other man breathe in relief. He doesn’t express his gratitude, but simply leans back on his seat. John gives him one last look, maybe he’ll find out soon what happened between both of them. But whatever it was, he hoped that they’ll be able to resolve them.

Jocelyn comes back a few hours later with a tired look on her face, her cheeks and nose reddening from the cold weather. She climbs up the stairs and sees that no one is home. She takes off her gloves and coat as she lets out a breath from exhaustion. She probably explored one fourth of the London area she’s in. Just to memorize the streets in case she is relocated. Jocelyn walks inside, her shoes clacking against the wooden floorboards. It is cold so she starts a fire in the fireplace. Jocelyn looks around and spots a note on the table. She assumes that it was her note, so she walks over and takes it. Jocelyn realizes that it is a new one, so she unfolds it and reads it with her eyes.

_‘Case. Don’t wait up. SH’_

She smiles to herself and takes the note with, tucking it inside her phone case. She goes to the living room where the fireplace is. She doesn’t hesitate in taking Sherlock’s violin and bow. Unlike Sherlock, she doesn’t clean it before using it. She remembers him always reminding her to clean it before using, but she doesn’t recall herself actually following. Maybe because his instruments are already too clean, always looking so new.

She settles the violin between her chin and shoulder, setting the bow against the strings before she starts to play. She only knows to play the songs that Sherlock composed, not much from actual classic composers. She closes her eyes and just sways with the music. She plays a solemn piece, Sherlock was very fond of composing slow and sad music. She wasn’t sure why, and still isn’t sure.

Jocelyn misses watching Sherlock compose. He used to do it in the middle of the night, just deciding to get up from bed and takes his violin, writing the notes on a napkin whenever he runs out of pages in his music book. She sometimes would wake up to the sound of violin. Jocelyn was never bothered by it, she’s actually more relaxed by it. Until now. Outstanding how some things never changed.

She isn’t aware of the landlady entering the flat with some grocery bags and a smile on her face. She sets the bags on the kitchen table and Jocelyn hears it, so she stops playing and turns around. “Heard that one before, Sherlock plays it all the time. Not sure which composer it’s from.” She tells Jocelyn and proceeds into filling the fridge and cabinets with everything she bought for the men.

The young woman puts the violin down and goes to help her. “Sherlock composed it, actually.” She says, wiping the table and also avoiding the detective’s experiment and equipment.

Mrs. Hudson laughs and closes the refrigerator. “Ah, yes. The sad ones are his specialty.” She raises her brows at her, making her smile. “Sometimes, John would sleep elsewhere whenever Sherlock decides to play at two in the morning, but I quite enjoy it.” She praises. “I even thought it was Sherlock playing when I came up here, I wasn’t expecting it to be you!” She says in an amused tone. “Did he teach you to play it?”

“Yes, he showed me the piece he wrote and—”

“No, dear. I meant the violin, did he teach you?” She smiles. Jocelyn pauses and just nods, making Mrs. Hudson sigh with a pleased expression written on her face. “I never took Sherlock as the teaching type. He always boasts about his knowledge but never shares how he does it. You must be very special then,” the landlady gives her a knowing look and Jocelyn just lets out an awkward laugh.

“We were good friends, Sherlock and I.”

“Oh, I never doubted it, love.” She pats the younger woman's cheek and starts to walk back to her own flat. “I’ll be down at Speedy’s if you need me, dear.” She reminds her and the lady thanks her for the groceries. Isn’t she a landlady? Why would she buy John and Sherlock’s groceries? Jocelyn didn’t question it since it is clear how much Mrs. Hudson adores the two men.

Jocelyn turns to get the violin again and continues playing. The music takes her back to so many memories. This is her favorite piece by Sherlock, as well. He used to play this a lot, especially whenever Jocelyn shows up at his doorstep with tears in her eyes. Some would think that a happier song should be played to lift the spirits, but Sherlock never did. He played his saddest piece to encourage Jocelyn to just let it all out. Crying was never Jocelyn’s favorite memories, but the ones where he used to be there for her all the time were one of them.

She stops playing. Why is she suddenly feeling like this? She doesn’t understand. It’s been eight years, surely she’s moved on. Sherlock clearly has, why couldn’t she? Maybe she just missed him a lot and hated how things ended up between the two of them. Then again, it was her fault that they’re like this. She started everything, after all.

It’s just that… seeing Sherlock again after many years really affected her somehow. Jocelyn wants to properly apologize, but the man never seems to give her a chance. Now, Sherlock admitted to her that he never once questioned why she left, and it makes her wonder if he already knew the reason. 

She breathes carefully, tucks the violin back into the case, and puts it away properly. Jocelyn goes to her room to retrieve a stick and her lighter, smoking while cooking some dinner for the two men who’ll probably come home in a few hours. It is quiet inside the flat, minus the white noise playing on the television. Jocelyn dislikes the quiet, it gives more room for her thoughts to become louder inside her mind. She only lets exhales smoke and wipes her hands with the dishcloth, thinking of how it will be a very long two weeks.


	5. The Quiet

John and Sherlock comes back just in time for her spaghetti cooling down. By the smell of food, John’s stomach grumbles. It was a wise decision for both of them to come home instead of eating outside. Solely because Sherlock told John that it’ll be likely for Jocelyn to cook their meals more often if she knows that they’ll be coming home.

_“Dinner?” John asked Sherlock from earlier after they’ve decided to take a break from the case for maybe a few hours for a bit._

_Sherlock sighed, looking up at the skies. Stars haven’t really appeared properly yet, so he slid his hands into the front pockets of his long coat. “Baker Street. Miss Fray has likely prepared something. You should not waste it. Mrs. Hudson will be very furious if we waste the groceries she bought for us.” He told his companion, continuing to walk. John decided not to ask how Sherlock knew about Mrs. Hudson’s constant concern over their food intake, since Sherlock never noticed how she made his tea every morning._

John didn’t push for more information, considering their last conversation concerning Jocelyn. John finds it amusing, though. How Sherlock still knows about Jocelyn’s antics without even realizing it. It only proves that Sherlock still knows what kind of woman Jocelyn. Although, Sherlock speaks about her so dismissively, No hint of affection or anything of the sort. As if she is just another stranger inside the house that Sherlock figured out.

Jocelyn is sat on the table in the living room with her laptop in front of her, looking up and smiling at John. “Oh, I made dinner. Please eat, both of you.” She tells them both, stealing a glance at Sherlock who ignores her words while taking off his coat. Sherlock doesn’t bother to tell her to move, already settling the papers he is carrying on the table. Jocelyn moves by herself, without waiting for him to ask. John stretches his arms. “You’re a gift from the heavens, Jocelyn.” He chuckles and moves to the kitchen. Sherlock is very focused on the case he’s on already, reading the words written on the pages. “So, how’s London treating you so far?” John asks from the kitchen.

Jocelyn tries her best not to look at Sherlock as she types into her laptop. “It’s been so long since I was here, actually. Eight years, to be precise.” She mentions. John emerges from the kitchen and sits on the couch right behind to Jocelyn. She closes the browser and reveals her desktop wallpaper.

John catches sight of the photo and couldn’t help but ask out of curiosity. “Is that your son?” He asks.

For the first time since they came home, Sherlock’s attention is grabbed and he looks up pointedly at John and then to the woman. Jocelyn notices his sudden movement at the corner of her eye when she looks at John. She looks back at her laptop and realizes that her wallpaper is a picture of her with her arms around a small boy, big smiles on both of their faces. It would definitely look misleading for John. “No, my neighbor has a son and I babysit sometimes. Along with their dog, for my days off.” She lets out a chuckle. “Shane. He’s a nice kid.” She nods. John just looks at Sherlock, who has an unreadable expression on his face before he goes back to work quietly. Jocelyn bites her bottom lip and clears her throat. “I don’t have a son,” she adds to John with a smile.

Sherlock presses his lips together and flips through the pages he brought. Murder, kidnapping, missing books; focus, Sherlock. He has the urge to slap himself, to snap out of this daze. John might think it’s disrespectful of him if Sherlock tells Jocelyn to go upstairs to do whatever it is she’s doing.

“D’you have a family here in London, then? Or anywhere in England?” John asks, tasting the spaghetti that she made, humming at how delicious it is.

Jocelyn just shuts down her laptop and closes the lid. “Not really. Well, no one close to me, at least. And I don’t really have brothers or sisters like you two.” She chuckles, still acknowledging both of them as part of the conversation even though Sherlock keeps to himself. Or so she thinks.

 _Not close to her?_  Sherlock thinks.

“Oh,” John nods. “Where do your parents live?”

Her smile falters a bit, but she quickly recovers. “My father is in Sussex. He has another family to take care of there.” She explains. “And my mother died a few years back.” Her voice quiets down.

Sherlock freezes, blinking a couple of times. He felt... he doesn’t  _understand_  what he felt upon hearing those words. He can’t begin to fathom what he feels. Emotions are something he divorced himself from, ever since that day. His lips part, as if he has something to say but quickly presses them back together, focusing on his work instead.

John didn’t even notice his flatmate react, he only frowns and gives Jocelyn an apologetic expression. Jocelyn didn’t really want to be pitied, but she doesn’t tell him off. “Sorry, I didn’t know.” John mutters.

She only forces a smile. “Oh, don’t be. You couldn’t have known. It’s been years, as well.” She waves him off and stands up to grab a book from the shelf. They were likely to belong to Sherlock, but he would have scolded her already if it weren’t all right for her to read one. While skimming through the shelf, she sees a copy of Pride and Prejudice, which made her suppress a smile. John goes to the kitchen to wash his plate and utensils. Sherlock slightly looks over his shoulder and sees Jocelyn picking out a book and opening it in the middle, as she always used to do. Spoiling herself of the plot. It used to frustrate Sherlock so much. She used to do quite a lot of that to him, quite honestly. Sherlock pushes the memory back and skims through the pages he has.

There is an urge to say something, it settles inside his body but he tries to ignore the impulse. Failing, though. “When?” He asks her without looking back.

Jocelyn turns to him, surprised to hear him speak while glancing at the back of his head as she grips the book in her hands. “Seven years ago.” She softly answers.

“How?”

She traces her fingertips against the edges of the pages in her book. “Her body slowly gave up.” She mumbles.

Sherlock clenches his jaw and just blinks slowly, processing her words. He’s used to a lot of murders and violent deaths as he solves case after case, but somehow, the death of Jocelyn’s mother hits him harder than he expected. He knew it was because he knew her, not too much since the woman never spoke properly to him, or to Jocelyn. Still, he knew her back when he was younger.

Sherlock stays silent for a bit, as he opens his mouth to say something. “My condolences.”

She just smiles a bit. “It’s fine, it’s a long time ago.” She says, trying not to remember the times she was sobbing on the bathroom floor to cope with everything. The alcohol was also a big problem, but now she has everything under control. She had a career as well, so she didn’t want to ruin that with how she deals with such tragedies. The smoking hasn’t stopped though, her teenage years are still stuck with her. Smoking is just very relaxing for some reason, even though she’s literally polluting her lungs.

It’s quite odd to hear those words from her, Sherlock thinks.  _You only think that because I moved on from my mother’s death quicker than you moved on from me leaving._  He hears her voice in his head, laced with some giggles. He shakes his head to remove it from his mind. He should start a conversation, or keep it flowing. Listen to John for once. However, something inside him is preventing him to do so. Hatred? Lack of motivation? Lack of interest?  _Are any of those true?_

Sherlock decides to put the papers down and watches Jocelyn make her way to the couch. The quiet sound of the faucet running in the kitchen with John washing the dishes was quite comforting in a way. She opens the book in the middle again, reading in between the ages already without even starting it from the very beginning. “Jocelyn,”

She looks up at him and lays the book on her lap to listen to what he has to say.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say though, that is the problem. He rests both his elbows on the table, palms pressed together and his fingertips touched his chin. When he opens his mouth, he hears the faucet turn off from the kitchen. Then, John comes back and walks over to the table to retrieve his phone. John clears his throat and goes through his messages on his couch. He calmly hums as Jocelyn presses her lips together, still thinking about what Sherlock was about to say. The consulting detective stays quiet, his elbows lifts themselves off the table and rests his forearms instead.

Jocelyn realizes that he won’t speak his thoughts anymore, now that Dr. Watson entered the room, so she gets up and closes the book. “Did you clean everything up already?” She asks John and he just nods at her. “There’s still some spaghetti in the table if you’re hungry,” she reminds the quiet man as he goes back to his work.

He doesn’t say anything and John just looks at him oddly, without the detective’s knowledge. Sherlock usually always has something to say, always there trying to get the last word. It’s not very often he loses all of his arrogant confidence.

Jocelyn just purses her lips and awkwardly starts walking upstairs. Sherlock turns his head only a few millimeters to the left, only to see Jocelyn disappear to the second floor. Her mother is gone, his father is off somewhere with another family, she has no siblings; what other family does Jocelyn have? John finds himself asking that in his head, wondering to himself. The consulting detective seems to have no other energy to continue working, but he does nevertheless.

\--

“Is she here already?” Jocelyn asked, peaking through the curtain to view the audience that was slowly increasing by the number. She felt very nervous. The amount of people watching is absolutely unnerving.

Dorothy, one of Jocelyn’s friends just patted her back comfortingly. She was one of the harp players for the group performance. “She  _will_  be here.” She assured Jocelyn, who looked glum. She just wanted her mother to at least watch her perform.

Her mother doesn’t really speak properly anymore, but she can still make facial expressions. She’s not mute, she just refuses to talk. Jocelyn wanted her to be here, this was a big day for her. She sighed and turned around, going to her dressing room to touch up for the sixteenth time tonight. She was feeling jittery and anxious, all the synonyms of that. She desperately needed a smoke, but refrained. She’d rather not be kicked out because of that. Jocelyn walked inside her temporary room, seeing her keyboard by the table and her pieces. She sat down in front of the mirror and just stared at herself. She cringed, touching her bright blue hair. Hopefully, she won’t look repulsive while being on that stage. She was scared that she might make a mistake or just ruin the performance altogether.

Then, there was a knock on the door. She assumed that it was one of the staff, telling her that the show will be starting in ten minutes. Their duet will be the last performers since they’ll be the most awaited performance. Jocelyn, as much as she did not like admitting it, is quite popular around the campus. She doesn’t know how it happened though. She couldn’t tell if it’s because of her grades, or musical talent, or if it’s the blue-colored hair. Jocelyn stood up and walked over to the door, opening it to reveal her partner.

Sherlock looked down at her, a faint smile on his lips upon seeing her. He hasn’t smiled all day, too. He hasn’t seen her for the whole day. They’ve been practicing day and night, in wherever place they could. Mostly in the room where they first properly met, though. Today, they decided that they’ll have a break and just meet here at the venue.

Jocelyn smiled, although it didn’t stop the shakiness of her hands. “I didn’t think you’d sneak yourself into my dressing room.” She let him in and closed the door. He was properly dressed, but his clothes seemed like his usual clothes. She has yet to see him wearing shorts and pants that are not black dress pants. Sherlock observed her clothes, a formal white blouse tucked inside a black and white skirt that reached above her knees. Her legs were covered with black leggings, hugging her and showed off her curves. Her clothes were in black and white, making her hair look brighter than it already is. It made him smile, and also the fact that he knew she was nervous from the way she grabbed the doorknob and twisted.

“I suppose it’s proper to visit you on such events, would you say?” He said, walking inside even more, eyes wandering around to distract himself from staring for far too long.

Jocelyn wrapped her arms around herself. “I guess.” She muttered.

He noticed the sudden change of atmosphere. “Alright?” He asked calmly, looking around the room and just pursing his lips politely at her. There was no point to asking if she was fine, he could see that she wasn’t. He may not understand most emotions but the basic evidences are already there.

And she really was not. “No,” she shook her head. “I don’t think I can perform without throwing up on stage.” She tried to laugh it off, but choked on her own saliva. She pressed her hand against her stomach. “Oh, this is  _awful_. I’ll be the laughing stock of the night.” She told him. “And my mother...” she paused. “She might not make it here.” A sigh left her lips as she looked down at her shoes.

Sherlock frowned. “Really? I just saw her in the audience before I came here. Front row, may I add.” He informed her, making the girl look up with light in her eyes. It warmed something inside Sherlock, the mere sight of her was pleasing enough.

“What? She’s here?” She had a big smile on her face, it was very contagious that it also made the corner of his lips curl up.

He nodded. “Yes, she’s here. Your aunt, as well. Obviously.” He informed. “They’re situated in the front seats. Hopefully the lights wouldn’t be a problem for your mother.”

Jocelyn was glad about that. Her Aunt Catelyn is the one who’s been watching over her mother. They were both sisters and Jocelyn knew that her aunt wouldn’t mind watching over her while Jocelyn goes to University. “Did they look excited, at least?”

He hesitated, not sure how to answer such question. “Erm... from the distance, I could not tell.” Alternatively, maybe because he can’t read facial expressions that well. He’s learning, though. Body language is different from facial expressions. Unfortunately, her mother couldn’t move from shoulders down.

She didn’t notice. “What about your family?”

He looked to his left, and then down at his shoes. “My parents are here.” He answered, but he didn’t seem pleased. “My brother won’t be attending.” He tried not to show his disappointed expression.

She frowned. “But this is an important night. For both of us, separately, I mean.” She pointed out.

“He has more important matters that require his full attention.”

She felt upset, somewhat. Couldn’t he have spared one night for his younger brother? As much as Sherlock didn’t want to make it seem like tonight was such an important day for him and his music, Jocelyn could see how upset he was that his big brother couldn’t be present. Not only are they playing Jocelyn’s piece, they’ll be playing one of Sherlock’s as well. “He should be here too, like both of our parents are. To watch and hear us perform together.” She cracks a smile.

“But at least they are here. You have nothing to be nervous about.”

“How come you’re not nervous?” She asked.

He just looked at her for a moment. “Anxiety, sadness, heartbreak, loss. They don’t always show on the outside. Sometimes, it’s best to keep it in and seem confident.” He shares with her, locking his hands together behind his back as he kept his back straight.

She processed his words more carefully. Is he hinting that he feels some of those, as well?

It was as if Sherlock analyzed her every movement. From the way her hair falls in front of her face, to how she scratches her elbow from nerves. She’s quite mesmerizing, that’s one word for it. Sherlock had no doubt that she’ll be able to astound each and every one of the people in the function hall. “Is that what you do?”

His brows knotted in confusion. “With what?”

She shrugged at him. “Pretend to be confident.” She steps forward until they were both a few feet apart. She tilted her head up at him due to their height difference and had an amused expression on her face. “For the sake of others.”

 _For the sake of others?_  Sherlock’s blue eyes bore into hers, his mind was racing but somewhat calm altogether. Jocelyn had quite the power, he couldn’t explain it. There was something about her that made him want to give in. “Now and then, yes.”

A smile found its way back on her face. Always smiling, always so happy. It’s how she wants Sherlock to remember her, a happy girl. The door opened from behind them and they both turn to look at the woman with a headset on, carrying a clipboard. She informed both of them that the show has started before leaving in a hurry. Although, she gave Sherlock a dirty look. He wasn’t supposed to be in the room, but she didn’t say anything.

The two of them were alone again and they looked back at the other. There was silence before they both went bursting into a fit of laughter. However, she was louder and his low chuckles were an imitation of rumbles from his chest. “I told you yesterday to not sneak in here,” she fondly pointed out, acting as if she was scolding him but failed with a grin on her face.

“But you were nervous,”

“And? We might get in trouble later.” She was endeared by him.

Sherlock just offered her half a smile. “I wanted to let you know that your mother was here.”

Jocelyn just scoffed mixed with a laugh. She just walked to the other side of the room. Sherlock followed her every step, watching as she gathered her written pieces. Jocelyn just sighed and pushed her hair back when they were starting to cover most of her vision. “Dorothy thinks you’re odd.” She told him, chuckling a bit.

At her words, Sherlock seemed unfazed. “Her and the rest of the campus. It doesn’t bother me that much like the normal ones. I’ve learned to live with it. What difference do their opinions make?” As much as half of him hated how everyone made fun of him by how different he is from the rest of them, he’s been gifted by the talent of ignoring them all. However, ignoring them doesn’t always mean getting rid of them. There were still many words that stung, many actions painful. Nevertheless, nothing he can die from.

“Is that you being confident?” She teased, making her way to the door as she carried her musical pieces.

There was a hint of a smirk on his face when he held the door open for her to walk out of them room with him. He turned the lights off in the room and followed beside her as they made their way backstage.

“Always.”

\--

Sherlock clears his throat and catches John’s attention. Dr. Watson looks up from his cell phone and glances at him. “You alright?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be fine?” He grumbles out a question, getting on his feet and leaving the papers scattered on the table before he walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John feels very confused. Ever since Jocelyn started to live in their flat, he’s been acting stranger than usual. John isn’t sure if he should do something about it, he already swore to Sherlock that he wouldn’t bring it up anymore. He just sighs and goes back to scrolling through his emails.

Meanwhile, Sherlock grips the edge of the sink and just lowers his head to try to steady his breathing.  _What is he doing? Why is this happening?_ God, he feels absolutely pathetic for feeling this way. What is it about her? This is absolutely repulsing. It’s been years, why is he acting as if he’s nineteen again? He’s bloody twenty-seven, a grown man. Why is this happening to him all over again?

He doesn’t even notice himself being transported inside his palace yet again, more specifically in that flat he definitely loathes being in. Instead of the sink, he’s gripping the marble fireplace in the middle of the living room. He breathes out of his mouth and just pushes himself off the fireplace, turning and is met with a frowning Jocelyn. She’s wearing black clothes and her brown hair framed her face. She’s sat on the edge of the table, her same position from the first time he saw her in his mind palace again a few days ago. Her eyes were bloodshot red, standing out because of her pale skin. Sherlock just observes her, not saying anything.

She sniffles. “It’s quite astounding how your mind works. What you know, is also what I know.” She muttered. “And you didn’t know that my mother is gone. Until now.”

He blinks at her, a blank expression on his face. “Why would it affect you? I created you in my head.”

“And what you feel is what I feel.” She shots back. “She was my mother and she adored you.” She reminds him. “She might not have showed it in the natural ways, but I know she did.”

Sherlock, irritated at what she said but chooses to ignore, just adjusts his collar to distract himself. “Your mother is a fine woman.”

“She was.” Jocelyn nods, wiping her tears away. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

He says nothing, watching her weep quietly. Familiar scene, as well.

Jocelyn sniffles again and smiles at him. “Well, that’s enough of that.” She dabs the corner of her eyes with her fingers. “Don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Then why am I here?” He asks quite calmly.

She has this look on her face that made Sherlock want to...  _no_ , he’s not going to do anything to her— _for_  her. The young woman breaks into gentle sobs again, the pain and grief is there. So much pain, all stored inside her. “Take a look around and make your deduction, Sherlock.” She answers, wiping her tears as they fall. “Is this where you get off? Letting your consciousness feel emotions in your behalf just because you refuse to do that yourself?” She smiles bitterly. “Sherlock Holmes, you’re so brave with all the cases you’ve solved, all the murderers you’ve faced. Countless, now. But you’re such a  _coward_  when it comes to dealing with human emotions.” She mutters.

“It’s not being cowardly, it’s being—”

“Confident. Yes, I remember your little antics.” She rolls her eyes, standing up to retrieve a folded handkerchief from the couch. “God, I’m such a mess.” She wipes her cheeks, letting out a laugh before shaking her head. “Speaks a lot of volumes, don’t you think? Since I’m you.”

His facial expression relaxes, and he slowly raises his head. In a way to say that she got him. She exhales, pressing her plump lips together and tilting her head. “Remember the day we performed together at the function hall of our school’s campus?” She plays with the hem of her dress, and he follows the movement of her dainty fingers.

Regretfully, Sherlock nods. “I do remember.” It isn’t as if he is so glad that he remembers. They’re a constant reminder that he can never delete any of those memories.

His Jocelyn consciousness looks at her own fingers, fiddling with the lace on her dress. “I was so nervous that I stopped playing in the middle of all of it. You helped me by improvising with your violin. Everyone thought it was a solo of yours, but you only did it to let me catch my breath before I start playing again.” She smiles at the memory. “It was like our little secret.” She turns her head towards him. “Amongst other things.” She adds cheekily.

When Sherlock doesn’t say anything, she frowns. She waits for him to respond before her smile fades away. “At least say something.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes into slits. “What do you want me to say?” He coldly asks.

She just lets out a scoff that is somewhat an incredulous laugh, in disbelief of the words that left his mouth. “Say? There’s nothing to say now.” She shakes her head at him. “Well, that’s the case for earlier. You said  _nothing_. You almost did, but you pulled back.” She reminds him. “What were you about to say? Word for word, Sherlock.” She sounds like she is teasing him, yet the tears in her eyes didn’t speak that way.

He hesitates, but doesn’t let it show. “Your mother is a wonderful woman. I certainly will never forget her, even if it did seem that way. She never came with you to New York, which means she passed here in England.” He pauses. “You haven’t visited her grave, ever. From your words, you haven’t been to London in eight years. You never attended the funeral. Too painful to do so.” He softly says the last sentence.

Jocelyn’s lips part, face softening up upon his words. She stays silent for a while before Sherlock continues to speak.

“I promised her that I would always be with you.” He muttered. “A vow that I had not kept.”

She sighs. “Sherlock,” Jocelyn stands up from where she is sitting. “That’s not your fault. I left, remember?” She gently says.

He ignores what she said, by which Jocelyn feels defeated. “Now, what question would you have asked me?” She asks.

Sherlock looks at her with confusion. “Question?”

“Yes?” She just smiles a bit. “I know you have one.”

He thinks about it for a second and realizes what she had meant. “What happened in New York?”

“That’s it, that’s the one.” She nods in agreement, amused now. “What exactly happened to me in New York? Did I just continue my study? Did became a Forensic Analyst right away? Did I have many problems during that time? Boyfriends, girlfriends?” She grins and walks over to Sherlock, settling her hands on his shoulders, taking him by surprise as her body and face neared his.

Sherlock fumbles for a bit, stuttering as he always did whenever she catches him off guard. “I... those  _aren’t_  what I meant.” He carefully says.

She just smiles at him, looking at him in a way that made his stomach growl. Or however he could explain it. Scientifically, his dopamine would be off the roof. Physically, his body would either tense up or relax. It depends on what she could be doing. Right now, her hand reaches up to cup his face, tracing his sharp cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. Sherlock tries his very best not to seem affected, but even by memory, he could still remember how her hands felt.  _He hates it so much_ , he hates everything about it. The pure loathe he had for her, it was maddening.

Sherlock looks down at her, as she tilts her own head up to meet his eyes. “Those are absolutely what you meant. I’m you, aren’t I? Keep in mind, Sherl.” She slowly rises on her tiptoes and is about to press her lips against his cheek.

Sherlock closes his eyes at the impact, but it never came. Instead, he opens his eyes again and he’s back in the bathroom with his body towards the sink. His shoulders dropped. A warm wave came over him, the urge to go upstairs and talk to her intensified. God, it is so difficult to fight off human instincts. This is precisely why Sherlock wants nothing to do with emotions and anything of the sort. It creates such a mess in his head and he just wants it all to stop at once. His whole focus now is on his work and he can’t have anything to interfere with the way his mind functions. Especially not her. He’s not insinuating that he has...  _feelings_  for her, or ever. He simply wants to never feel this way again.

He looks down and he sees how his hands are shaking. His brows knot together in puzzlement, observing his right hand. He hasn’t taken anything, why is he shaking as if he was on something? He just breathes deeply and washes his hands as if it would help. Sherlock leaves the bathroom to continue an experiment he was conducting on the kitchen table.

***

“You should come with us to St. Barts.” John says to Jocelyn during the time he came home from work. It’s been four days since Sherlock somewhat had a row with his own consciousness. He hasn’t been to his mind palace in a while, and he’s starting to tolerate the presence of Jocelyn in Baker Street. As for John, he is now  _extremely_  fond of her. Sherlock still believes that it’s inevitable for John to ask her to dinner, although he would find it odd if John actually would. He isn’t sure why, and he doesn’t like being unsure.

Mrs. Hudson comes over quite more often now. Sherlock would always see her in his flat chatting with Jocelyn, or the other way around with Jocelyn inside his landlady’s flat. Both women enjoy each other’s company quite a lot. Mrs. Hudson probably prefers her company to the two men, by now. It wouldn’t be shocking if Mrs. Hudson would offer her a place of her own with a discounted price.

Although, it was surprising how Mrs. Hudson never notices the faint smell of cigarette smoke inside the flat.

She just nervously laughs. “But you two are on a case. Wouldn’t I probably cause a distraction?”

 _Definitely a distraction_ , Sherlock thinks behind his newspaper. Jocelyn is pouring herself a glass of water, already dressed up. Her hair is properly done, and her dress is in a dark shade of blue. She looks beautiful, as usual. It is sickening to Sherlock.

John makes a sound of disagreement. “Of course you wouldn’t be. Unless you’d like to stay here.” He points out, sliding his coat sleeves into his arms. Upon seeing this, Sherlock follows suit. If he refuses to let Jocelyn come, it will raise questions from John. Even if Dr. Watson has sworn not to bring up questions about Jocelyn, Sherlock still knows that he’d ask himself these questions and further his suspicions about the consulting detective. Therefore, he lets John do whatever he wants. It’s not as if he’s that affected by Jocelyn, she means nothing to him. Just another woman.

She hesitates, glancing at Sherlock when he wasn’t looking. “Uh, I don’t know.” She lets out a chuckle. “Would that be alright with both of you?”

“Yes, of course.” John nodded, turning to his flatmate. “Sherlock?”

He sighs through his mouth, the sunlight from the window created a shadow from his cupid’s bow and high cheekbones. “I don’t see why not.” He mutters and adjusts the collar of his button-up shirt.

Jocelyn suspiciously observes him, but just shakes her head. “I think I’ll just stay here and help Mrs. Hudson with her furniture.” She kindly declines, wiping the kitchen table as she watches the men go through the door.

Sherlock frowns, but just continues walking down the stairs. Dr. Watson stays behind for a second and spares her a glance. “Mrs. Hudson’s furniture arrived two days ago. He wouldn’t have noticed, but I did.” He quietly tells her, and makes the woman purse her lips in defeat.

Jocelyn just forces a smile. “It’s okay, John. I’m just not feeling up to it.”

He curtly nods, offering her a smile before he goes to follow Sherlock downstairs and outside. He already summoned a cab and John climbs inside. They went to St. Barts together and Watson hesitantly looks at Sherlock and looked back outside the window.

Sherlock can feel the itch of asking questions, radiating from John. He doesn’t let him though, and proceeds to explain the case to him and what he gathered so far. He had a substance be examined, and Sherlock wants to figure out if there was poison in it and what kind. He was almost certain that it was poison, but he has no idea who the culprit may be. The case has been going on for two days now.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John snaps him out of his daze.

Sherlock blinks for a second, realizing that the cab has stopped already and that John has left his seat. He isn’t sure how long he’s been deep in his thoughts, but he just gets out of the cab and it drives off, confirming that John has already paid for the ride. John is a patient man, looking at his friend with a questioning look. “Are you alright—”

“Fine,” he vaguely answers and walks in the hospital, spotting Molly in her usual lab coat and ponytail. She is walking to another hallway when she spots the two men at the corner of her eyes, smiling when seeing Sherlock.

“Hello, Sherlock.” She greets and nods at John, not even bothering to greet him or know his name herself. Too distracted by the fine man in front of her. John instantly remembers her as the woman who brought Sherlock his coffee on the day he met the man. The same woman he ignorantly insulted about her lipstick.

Sherlock continues walking, not even stopping when she walked next to him. “Found anything?”

Molly just ignores the fact that he ignored her, John realizes that she is absolutely infatuated with him. One-sidedly, as well. “Well, not yet. It’s still processing though, but you can use my lab and microscope,” she offers.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, takes a sharp turn to the left, and goes inside a room. John follows suit and it was the same lab where they met. Sherlock takes off his coat and settles it on a chair, and John does the same. He proceeds with what he usually does, and Dr. Watson watches him work before he finally observed the substance through the microscope. Whenever Molly peeks into the room, Dr. Watson immediately knew that it was to see Sherlock. Not to be offensive, but he doesn’t really understand how women could find Sherlock appealing. He’s not really the type of man that women would fawn over. In fact, he’s the exact opposite of a perfect match.

But then again, some women might find his intellect attractive. Maybe that’s what happened with Molly. John can’t exactly say that Sherlock is not physically attractive to some other people as well. Come to think of it, he slightly understands.

Some women like the odd ones as well.

“Look at what Sherlock has done to my wall,” Mrs. Hudson bitterly says to Jocelyn, looking at the yellow smiley face painted on her wallpaper.

Jocelyn offers her a sympathetic smile, glancing at the doodle. “He’ll probably pay for it.” She urges and just pours Mrs. Hudson some tea. “So, John mentioned to me that your husband was, um...” she trails off, realizing that it is probably an odd topic.

However, the old woman just smiles as if it was nothing. “My husband was part of a drug cartel. He was very awful and the whole lot. We both moved to Florida and lived there for a while. His job is what got him killed, I couldn’t complain.” She mutters before sipping her tea. She glances at the door when it was suddenly opened, revealing an annoyed John who has a glare on his face.

Jocelyn looks at him in puzzlement. “John,” she starts. “You came home quite early?”

“Yeah, he’s bloody insane. Kicked me out as soon as he found chlorine in the substance he was examining. Said that he wanted to be left alone.” He sighs in frustration. “God, he’s too full of himself.” He mumbles and goes to take a seat on his chair. “I was planning to ask Sarah to have dinner with me, but she’s busy at the moment.”

“Oh?” Jocelyn muses. “I was about to go outside and walk around London again later, do you want to come along?” She offers.

He breathes in relief. “Anything to be out of these walls would be great.”

Mrs. Hudson complains to John about the smiley face that Sherlock created on her wallpaper, all while Jocelyn washes the dishes. A knock on the door catches her attention as she checks the closed door for a second. She reaches for the dishcloth and wipes her hands with it, before going to the front door that directly led to the kitchen. She opens it and sees a man carrying a case, facing the other door while waiting for it to be answered.

When Jocelyn opened the door, the man’s head turns to her, a sarcastic grin on his face. “Dr. Watson, my...” she tilts her head up due to his height. She has a smile on her face, but it slowly fades when the man stares at her with shock. Jocelyn’s whole body tenses when she realizes that it is no other than Sherlock’s older brother.

Jocelyn’s heart drops. “Mycroft,”

He just stares at her with utter shock. It takes him a second to form actual words. “Miss Fray.” He pauses between words.

She has no idea whether to hug him or cower in fear, but she just swallows and couldn’t look away from his eyes. Jocelyn doesn’t notice John walking in the kitchen and noticing that Mycroft is by his doorstep. “What… are you doing here?” John asks in confusion, looking down at the folder he was holding. Usually, Mycroft just abducts him with a car if he actually needs something. He never really shows up himself. “Sherlock’s not here.” He adds.

Mycroft has an unsure expression on his face, unable to get his eyes off the woman. “I didn’t come here to talk to my brother, Dr. Watson. On the contrary, I came to have a word with you.” He finally tore his eyes off and sternly looms over at John. “Although, it does concern Sherlock. The secrecy of our interaction will be left to your discretion. I have high hopes that you’ll make the right choice.” He calmly says, but there is still that slight undertone that made both John and Jocelyn uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson calls for Jocelyn back in the living room and she scurries off, avoiding Mycroft’s intense gaze. The landlady asks her to join her downstairs to leave the flat, and give the two men some space. And she does just that, giving Mycroft one last glance before she walks downstairs.

On the other hand, Mycroft grips his folded umbrella and walks to the living room, where he looks around for a second and turns his body towards John. “What is Miss Fray doing in Baker Street? Most specifically, Sherlock’s shared flat?” John isn’t sure what kind of tone Mycroft made, but it made him feel confused. What is with the Holmes and Jocelyn? Surely, Jocelyn didn’t do anything to harm them. Did she?

John hesitates for a second. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“He’s my brother. What goes on in his life, _is_ my business.” He snaps.

“Sherlock wouldn’t approve me speaking about him to you.” John narrows his eyes.

“I can assure you, Dr. Watson. I do things for my brother’s best interests.” Mycroft solemnly informs him.

Dr. Watson observes him suspiciously. He barely trusts Mycroft. Adding to that, he has no idea about the history between Mycroft and Jocelyn. He does recall Jocelyn saying that they were once friends, although they didn’t get along. Whatever that meant. “Jocelyn is a friend of my sister. She asked me if Jocelyn could stay here for a while before the start of a conference she has to attend in a week.” He explains.

Mycroft didn’t even blink. “And what did Sherlock have to say about her sudden intrusion?”

“Tell me one good reason why I should even share that with you?” John asks with a cold tone.

The eldest Holmes’ face hardens. “Miss Jocelyn Fray poses a greater danger that you can never even fathom. She—” he stops himself, holding his head up high. John’s brows knot, how can the Jocelyn that he knows, be such a great danger? He cannot see it. “You don’t have to know any of that.” Mycroft sighs.

His words are etched into John’s mind. A great danger sounds exaggerated if one would ask John. He looks down at the folder that Mycroft was holding. “Why are you really here?”

Mycroft seems to divert the attention from the real reason he came here, now that he has seen the young woman. “Have Jocelyn Fray leave the premises and then we can discuss Sherlock.”

“And why would I do that?” John shots back.

The elder Holmes just gives him a bitter smile. “Well, it’s very much obvious to me how you care about my brother. You’d do what’s right for him. And I can assure you, being around that woman is not one of those things.”

“She’s Sherlock’s friend,” John points out.

“Is she?” Mycroft mocks a look of surprise. “Has my brother ever uttered those words to you ever since she arrived?”

When John doesn’t answer, Mycroft gives him a sly smile. “I hadn’t thought so.” He dryly says. “I suppose he told you the opposite. As he should.”

John gives him a puzzled look. “Jocelyn? The woman who cooks spaghetti and dances to Frank Sinatra when she thinks that no one is looking? She’s the great danger you’re referring to?”

“You’ll hardly understand it, Dr. Watson.” He calmly says, unfazed by John’s cluelessness about what really is going on.

“Maybe you can make me understand, because Sherlock refuses to explain anything to me. It is absolutely maddening.” John shakes his head, his tone is somewhat resentful.

Both men still stood in the middle of the living room. Mycroft closes his eyes briefly and sighs. “I have good reason to believe that Sherlock refused to let Miss Fray live among you. And he has a point. I can have arrangements made, and you can tell her that she’ll be moving elsewhere.” He casually says.

John gapes at him. “She’s already settled here—”

“And she can settle herself somewhere else. It wouldn’t be a hardship for her. She moves quite frequently.” He says, but it somehow had a deeper meaning for him that John didn’t quite catch.

Watson looks back at him, a stern expression on his face. “What am I going to say to her?” He quietly asks.

Mycroft looks pleased by his response. “She’ll be suitably compensated, don’t worry.” He informs him. “Tell my dear brother about my arrangements. I can assure you that he’d be pleased.” He starts walking back to the front door. “Just remember, Dr. Watson. Miss Jocelyn Fray is far more capable of doing things, other than cooking spaghetti and dancing to Sinatra.” He reminds him before he leaves without another word, not even giving a chance to John to even say something.

Sherlock comes back in two hours. The flat is empty and he’s greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who informed him that his two flatmates have left to have a walk two hours ago. He settles his equipment messily on the table, seeing a note from Jocelyn again that says, ‘Walking around in London with John, leave a light on’ and it has a smudge of dark brown lipstick. Maybe unintentional as well. Sherlock throws the note into the trash and looks around the flat.

His eyes narrow into slits, realizing that his brother came into the flat for some reason. He noticed the knocker on the front door, but decided not to think about it. Now he can see fresh marks of the tip of an umbrella all over his floor. Probably to inform him of a party that involves both their parents. Although, John or Mrs. Hudson would have informed him of such a visit. That’s the unusual part of all of it. Mycroft rarely goes to places; he has minions to do that for him. Sherlock realizes that Mycroft may have seen Jocelyn. He rolls his eyes at the thought, thinking of how overjoyed that reunion may have been. Mycroft probably was ecstatic to see her again, she brings out the hugger in Mycroft. Quite a distasteful scene.

He mentally groans when he realized that his parents might be informed as well. For God’s sake, he hopes not. He can already imagine his mother gushing over her as if she never did what he had done. He doesn’t understand how Jocelyn can do it, make everyone adore her. She’s just a normal woman doing normal odd things, what’s so special about that?

He hears footsteps from the front door and so he goes back to the living room to get his violin and the music book he writes on, cleaning it with a wipe. Jocelyn exhales in frustration, but breaks into laughter with John. They seem to have run here for an unknown reason. Sherlock pays them no mind and starts to play his violin.

Jocelyn giggles to herself, sliding the gloves off her hands. She takes off her beanie and frees her brown hair, walking inside with John who had an amused expression on his face. The two quite enjoyed their time together and... Sherlock can’t word his opinion about it. The idea of them together is sickening, John could have better. He deserves better than Jocelyn, that’s the reason why he doesn’t like the idea. Yes, that’s it.

The young woman is reddening from the weather and she sighs from being tired, walking to the kitchen to get some water. “That was the most fun I’ve had so far.” She tells John, making her voice louder so he could hear over the beautiful violin.

John makes a sound of agreement, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m not sure almost getting arrested could count as fun.”

She scoffs playfully. “I didn’t know it was private property! They should’ve put up a sign!” She loudly says in between laughing, making John chuckle and follows her to the kitchen.

Sherlock’s jaw clenches, gripping the bow even tighter. Listening to their stories from their walk earlier is making him quite angry for some reason. He keeps playing when Jocelyn runs upstairs to change and John walks in the living room.

“Saw your brother today.” John quietly tells him, and his words made Sherlock stop playing.

“I take it that he saw her, then? What, are you about to tell me that you were shocked about how friendly Mycroft can actually be?” He dryly says and turns around from the window to face John. “I suspect that he already told our parents about Jocelyn being back in London, as well.” He blankly states.

What confused him was how John’s face twists in puzzlement. The look on Dr. Watson’s face confirmed that he never witnessed anything that Sherlock described. “What?” He asks. “He saw her and asked me to tell you about the arrangements he made. He wants to move her elsewhere.” He informs Sherlock, locking his hands behind him.

Sherlock furrows his brows.  _Arrangements? To move her?_  “And?”

“Yeah, I didn’t tell her.” John shakes his head. “I promised my sister that she’s staying with me, not somewhere else that I probably won’t know. She stays here, Sherlock. She’s not acquainted with London. From what we talked about today, she’s not from the center of London.” John adds, but Sherlock stays silent. Watson inhales. “What did Jocelyn ever do to you? Even Mycroft is trying to make her stay away from you. He even used the words ‘greater danger’ to describe Jocelyn. That Jocelyn!” John half whispers and half yells.

Sherlock is surprised that Mycroft thought the same way. He does recall his brother and Jocelyn being inseparable at times. The pranks they used to pull on each other and the pranks that Sherlock and Jocelyn used to do to the older Holmes. Sherlock frowns when the memories play before his eyes, shaking his head to stop himself from thinking about it.

“Don’t fret. I’ll have a word with my brother tomorrow.” He mutters, going the case and settling the violin inside.

John furrows his brows in suspicion. “And tell him what?”

The consulting detective looks at him oddly. “It would please you if she stays, correct?”

“Yes?” John trails off.

“Then she’s staying. I’ll ask Mycroft to cancel all arrangements.” Sherlock casually says and John feels surprised. “Why was he here in the first place?” He asks.

John decides not to ask any other question, in fear that Sherlock might change his mind. “He didn’t say, but he was carrying a folder. Probably has a case for you.”

Sherlock scoffs. “A case? Improbable. He can solve it by himself or have his employees do it for him as usual. Why come to me personally?”

“Must be important.”

Sherlock can see the point and just presses his lips together. “What did Jocelyn say about Mycroft?” He quietly asks.

Dr. Watson feels very surprised lately from Sherlock’s actions. “We barely spoke about him actually. She just mentioned that they used to be great friends.”

Great friends? The only way to describe it was how Mycroft treated Jocelyn like the sister they never had. He loved her, adored her than anyone. How can Mycroft act this way? Have the years really changed him? Sherlock deduces it to be the latter, they were teens after all. Even Jocelyn changed. She isn’t how she was when they were nineteen. Sherlock remembers her not being able to stay in one place. Her hyperactive personality slightly decreased. Now, she’s a graceful and poised woman with class. Maybe some playfulness is still there, but not all of it. Everyone changes over the course of the years; take the Holmes siblings for example.

Sherlock nods. “She’s not wrong. They were.” He looks away, settling on hand on his hip.

It’s quite surprising to imagine Mycroft and Jocelyn being great friends, for John’s part. “Really?” He asks in disbelief.

“Yes.” He answered briefly and walks to the front. “So, what is this private territory that you both were discussing?”

“Oh, you were listening?” He teases.

Sherlock glares. “I’m chatting to pass time.”

“What about the case you’re doing? Isn’t that a good activity to pass time with?”

The detective sighs. “Man suffocated by water, owned by the wife of his twin brother. A rich family with a swimming pool in the backyard. Killed by the wife’s lover, under the impression that he was the husband. Realizing his mistake, he takes the dead man back to his apartment and made it seem like he was poisoned. Scotland Yard is taking care of it as we speak.” He speaks in a very fast pace, but John is somehow used to it and caught every word he said.

“Oh,” he just says, not sure if he should be impressed. This is all normal for Sherlock.

Still, from the loss of words, the corner of Sherlock’s lips curl up. He liked it whenever he impresses someone. “Rest. I might not have any cases soon. Most of them are quite boring now.” He says. “Tomorrow shall be a very  _boring_  day, indeed.”

It was quiet inside the flat when John proceeds to Sherlock’s bedroom to sleep.

The detective is standing by the bottom of the staircase, looking up. He can hear the faint jazz music of Billie Holiday, another artist that Jocelyn is extremely fond of. He hesitates, but his foot already settles itself on the first step, the other was still on the second floor. He does the same thirteen times until he reached the top of the stairs. He hasn’t been upstairs ever since the time he woke John up for a case. He walks to the door that led to John’s room and raises his fist, knocking twice softly.

The music doesn’t stop when Jocelyn opens the door with another one of those pure smiles she has. It fades slightly in surprise upon seeing Sherlock. She never really expected him to come up her room. “Hey, is there something wrong?” She asks with concern.

Quite odd how she always seems concerned when Sherlock voluntarily interacts with her.

Her face is free from makeup, her brown hair is still in its place from earlier, probably because she hasn’t lay down or brushed through it yet. She’s wearing some baggy clothes again, as usual. In her hand settles a rose, he immediately knows where she got it. From how it looks, it’s from that flower shop two streets down. Sherlock ignores that odd feeling settling on his stomach at the thought of John giving that to her. What’s so odd about a flower? Many people like flowers.

Sherlock clears his throat, parting his lips to speak but only quiet came out. He exhales and looks down at the ground. “Your... mother was a wonderful woman. I certainly will never forget her,” he pauses to look at her face. Jocelyn realizes that these were the words he was about to say when she mentioned that her mother passed away. She looks a bit sad now. “Even if it did seem that way.” He mutters.

She is about to speak, but Sherlock continues to talk. “She never came with you to New York, which means she passed here in England.” He pauses. “You haven’t visited her grave, ever. From your words, you haven’t been to London in eight years. You never attended the funeral. Too painful to do so.” He mumbles the last part.

Now, she looks incredibly sad. Her lips formed a frown and her eyes were shining. He isn’t sure if it was because of the natural moisture of the eyes, or that hers were filling with tears. Because he was right, he’s always been correct. She looks down at the ground for a second before she meets with his eyes. “Aunt Catelyn hates me,” she softly says, sniffling with a hesitant smile. “You’re right, I didn’t go to the funeral. I couldn’t bear to see her body. I should’ve been there, not only for the funeral. I should’ve been with her.” A tear leaves her eye and she quickly wipes it away. The man just watches her with a faltering expression, truly fascinated by human emotions even when he says he isn’t. “Sherlock—”

“I promised her that I would always be with you.” He interrupts. “A vow that I had not kept.” It is as if the words are pushing themselves out of his mouth.

She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. It wasn’t really a serious vow. I don’t even think it was a vow.” She waves it off. “It’s certainly not your first or last vow.”

“A vow is a vow, Jocelyn.”

“In that case, I broke it first.” She tilts her chin up to meet his eyes.

Sherlock tries his best not to let his emotions get the best of him. “Yes, you did.”

Jocelyn doesn’t even look hurt. She knows that it’s her fault; she doesn’t blame him for blaming her. “I understand that you hate me—”

“Right, I’m done here.” Sherlock dismisses himself as he turns to walk away. However, the younger woman gently grabs his arm to stop him.

“I’ll stop.” She promises, letting go of his arm. “But thank you for saying what you said. However hard that was, it’s all deeply appreciated.” She assures him.

Sherlock spares her one last glance before nodding curtly, walking away and downstairs. Jocelyn sighs, leaning against the doorframe and buries her face into both her palms. Her hands move down to cover the lower half of her face, frowning. She glances at the rose she left on top of the desk near the door, wondering why a man from earlier gave her the flower. When Sherlock reaches the second floor, his fists clenched and he felt like he could destroy something. No, he can’t let anger win over him. He can’t do that to himself again. But that’s not really why he’s angry. He’s angry because despite everything she has done to him, he’s still going to talk to his brother in around tomorrow to have those arrangements cancelled. Simply because he would like her to stay in Baker Street. He doesn’t want to admit that her staying isn’t only for John’s sake.

It’s quiet before he came upstairs, and it remained quiet when he reached the living room. He hates the calm, the peaceful. It was never his type of atmosphere. So he picks up his violin and starts to play one of his pieces, trying his best to control his mind and stop reminiscing about the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i'm only here to explain a few things because it might confuse others.
> 
> teenage sherlock leans more on his emotional side, that is why he seems to be getting more attached to teenage jocelyn, since she's the person he's experiencing emotions with. although, being emotional doesn't mean he isn't cold anymore. teen sherlock is still a bit clueless when it comes to feelings; and to add to that, he is already very intelligent. the difference between teen sherlock and current sherlock is that teen sherlock embraces new feelings, unlike current sherlock; who suppresses them.
> 
> current sherlock is more logical, cold but sensible, which makes it difficult for him to experience the same thing he did when he was nineteen. emotions are vile for sherlock, but just because he doesn't like it, doesn't mean he never experiences it. in their teenage years flashbacks, it won't be a slow burn, but for the current setting, it will be. 
> 
> because what kind of teenager will a person be if they don't fall hard and fast for someone?


	6. The Brother

“You want me to do  _what_?” Mycroft shoots back at his younger brother, making a move to remove his back from the back of his office chair and rest his forearms on his desk. A disgruntled expression on his face is clearly written.

“Cancel the arrangements you’ve made so far,” Sherlock repeats, hands still folded on his lap. He’s seated on the chair in front of Mycroft’s table with a blank expression.

Mycroft offered him a confused sound. “I thought it would please you if I removed her myself.”

The younger Holmes remained expressionless. “It doesn’t. Cancel the arrangements.”

His brother grits his teeth, but calms himself. “I’m afraid that it’s done. My assistant will be coming to Baker Street to have her relocated.” He declares.

Sherlock’s nose flares up, a bit annoyed now. “Cancel it. I know you came to my flat for a case. If you let this go, I will investigate away.”

Mycroft looks at him in bafflement. “And why are you so eager to keep her within your home?” He suspiciously him. “You’re not exactly known for your sentimentality, brother mine.”

Sherlock’s eyes twitch. “Cancel everything. Miss Fray remains in Baker Street.” He coldly states.

“You’re very persistent, may I ask why?” He paints a dry smile on his face.

The younger Holmes remains unfazed. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” He informs before standing up and adjusting his coat. “I expect all arrangements to be put to stop by the end of the day.”

Mycroft stands up from his seat in alarm. “Have you forgotten what she has done?”

His words make Sherlock stop at his tracks and just relax his shoulders. He can never question why Mycroft’s perspective towards Jocelyn has changed, since the same thing happened to Sherlock as well. It isn’t surprising for Sherlock that his brother, once inseparable from the young woman, is now very cold towards her. “No.” He turns to his brother. “I want nothing but her out of my flat. Make no mistake, I’m only allowing her in my home because it is also John’s home. And he wants her to remain there without anything or  _anyone_  interfering.” He sends daggers with his gaze. “That includes you and I.”

The eldest Holmes only tilted his chin up high, in a sense of authority. “Very well. I’ll have my assistant take care of it.” He sighs in defeat. “Would that be all?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he answers and turns back around to walk away.

“Oh, and little brother?”

He rolls his eyes and stops walking again, turning his body lazily. “What?”

“I hope you won’t make the same mistake again.” Mycroft simply says as he sits back down on his chair.

Sherlock grimaces. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” He disdainfully says, glaring at his brother one last time before he walks out of his office. He’s greeted by some of his brother’s guards, whom he just ignores when they escort him to a cab to an airport.

His deductions were correct when he came home from Minsk, Belarus. It is quite boring today. No cases,  _nothing to work on_. The case he came to Minsk for was a cold one, nothing but an exaggerated story of domestic murder and not worth his time at all. Sherlock might go insane if he stares at the wallpaper of the flat for too long. John is at work and Jocelyn is in the kitchen, cleaning the counter. Sherlock feels utterly bored out of his mind as he sits on the couch wearing a shirt, pajamas and his blue dressing gown.

It is quite impressive how Sherlock hasn’t spoken to any of his consciousness for days now. Nothing has triggered his great mind in a while. Usually, his mind would interrupt his reality out of nowhere, even when he hasn’t asked for it. Currently, he can actually control things for once. But then again, he distinctly remembers how John keeps his gun inside the drawer.

Jocelyn notices his silence and just smiles to herself. “You don’t have a case today, at least have lunch.” She offers him, setting the table with plates for each of them. “Mrs. Hudson gave us some Mac and Cheese.” She giddily says, reminding Sherlock of her adoration for anything with cheese in it.

Jocelyn brings the casserole to the table in the living room. “This will cheer both of us up.” She mutters under her breath, carefully putting food into a plate and setting a fork beside it. She settles the plate near Sherlock, whom only glances at it and looks away.

Jocelyn sighs. “Come on, Sherlock. You haven’t eaten in almost two days and the last thing you ate was half a sandwich from Mrs. Hudson’s refrigerator.” She deadpans, flopping her arms on both sides of her torso.

“If I want to eat, I would.” Sherlock mumbles and closes his eyes.

She frowns. “But there’s a lot of food. I can’t finish all of this on my own, John won’t be home until tonight, and he’s got a date.”

 _Dates, how dreadful_. He doesn’t notice how he mumbles that out loud, making her laugh a bit. Sherlock gives her a questioning look. “What?”

“You know, dates aren’t that dreadful as long as it’s with the right person. John likes Sarah quite a lot.” She reminds, raising her brows at him, going to take a plate and some food for herself. She sits on Sherlock’s chair, putting her feet up and eats away.

Sherlock sighs and turns to stare at the ceiling. They’re having a conversation, it’s normal. He should tolerate this. She only has five days left in Baker Street before Harry Watson takes her under her wing again. “I suppose.”

She smiles when he responds. “Have you read John’s blog? He wrote about the case back in February, The Study in Pink? I’ve read it earlier when he showed me,” She pauses, and his attention is peaked. “You got into the cab of a serial killer?”

He almost smirks, but refrains. “And what of it?” Sherlock finds it a bit amusing how she found that part as the most out of the ordinary event that happened in John’s description of the first case they solved together. Not how he has no idea how the solar system worked, or the fact that Scotland Yard raided his home, or how he has no idea who’s Prime Minister. By now, Jocelyn found that normal about him, nothing out of the ordinary. He read the blog shortly after his arrival back in London an hour ago, it’s as if he was last to read it even though the blog entry was partly about him, whereas everyone read it more than a month ago.

Jocelyn shrugs. “I don’t know. I find it very weird since you’re smart. Smart people don’t get into the cabs of a killer.” She points out.

“Understandable, but it was for the reason as to how he does his killings. I wanted to see for myself.” He justifies.

She lets out a scoff, a little delighted. “Almost getting yourself killed in the process.”

Sherlock stays quiet after that remark; eyes closed and is deep inside his mind. He thinks of the past cases, and deletes them before solving them again in his head. He does this four times and barely notices Jocelyn putting a blanket over him from the cold of the night. He flinches and opens his eyes, Jocelyn looks at him with alarm. She is wearing something quite different from earlier when she had lunch. Her ironed dress is more formal and she smells of Chanel with a hint of cigarette smoke. Her hair is brushed and clipped to the back of her head, and her silver shoes clacked against the wooden floor. Sherlock’s eyes dart to the blanket in her hands and to the window, showing how it’s already nighttime. He realizes that he’s been immersed for hours.

The young woman watches him with caution. “You aware that you were frozen for four hours?” She folds the blanket and leaves it on the table. “I thought you passed out. Fell asleep.” She crosses her arms together and just stood next to the table, her amusement for Sherlock trying to make sense of reality for a few seconds were off the roof.

Sherlock blinks slowly and presses his palms together, resting his fingertips by his chin. He sits up as his eyes dart to his room, where John moved the gun into his drawer. He feels the sudden urge to take it and just, well, start shooting the wall for some noise at least. Jocelyn just observes him intently, seeing how disoriented he is without a fix. She wonders where he keeps his nicotine patches, maybe that will soothe him.

When he says nothing, Jocelyn’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Alright, I’m going to the drugstore to get you nicotine patches. Would you like that?” She asks.

Although he knows that he can do it himself, he nods, not even looking at her. “Yes.” He mutters his answer as he stands and walks to his room. The things he’d do for any kind of fix.

Jocelyn half-smiles and just grabs her coat and gloves before heading downstairs. “Don’t do anything stupid.” She mutters more to herself, but Sherlock still heard it on her way down the stairs.

Next thing Sherlock knew is that he’s sat in his chair with a gun in his hand and his long legs stretched in front of him, aiming the gun to the wall and shooting twice. He has a blank expression on his face as he does so. His arms hang over the armrests of the chair and when he hears the door open downstairs, he immediately knows that it is John from the way his footsteps sounded. So, he sees no problem with aiming at the wall again and pulling the trigger four times in a row. John comes climbing up the stairs with both hands on each ear to protect them from the loud sound of the gun shooting.

John gapes at him. “What the  _hell_  are you doing?” He asks with astonishment.

To which Sherlock replies with a quiet, “Bored.”

Dr. Watson wasn’t sure if he heard him right, so he leans forward and gives him a confused expression. “What?” He demands with aggression.

“Bored!” Sherlock exclaims with wide eyes as he stands up and aims at the wall again.

“No—” John pauses and covers his ears as his flatmate shoots at the wall.

“Bored!” He twists his arm around himself and pulls the trigger from behind his back. “Bored!” Sherlock grimaces as John takes the gun from him, turning the safety on and unloading it. _Damn it, Holmes_. “Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes.” Sherlock mumbles as the doctor hides the gun again, but Sherlock might find it soon. “Good job, I’m not one of them.”

John looks up. “So you take it out on the wall?” He dryly says.

He brushes his fingers against the bullet holes. “Oh, the wall had it coming.” He trails off, recalling how he kept thinking of the gun inside the drawer. He flops himself onto the couch and sighs.

“Where’s Jocelyn? I don’t suppose you’ve scared her off now?” John nervously asks, knowing that Sherlock can get up into anyone’s nerves.

The bored detective only closes his eyes and shrugs. “Off to a drugstore. Not sure what she was going to buy.” He lies easily.

John sighs in relief, taking off his coat. “What about the Russian case?”

Sherlock opens his eyes, ready to discuss it. “Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.” He huffs.

“Oh, shame.” John sarcastically says and goes to the kitchen. He grins to himself, seeing how clean it is because of Jocelyn. Sherlock is hopeless when it comes to being clean, his room is an exception. Although, he rarely spends his time inside the room. From the cleanliness of the room, he doesn’t really expect anything out of the ordinary. “Anything in? I’m starving.” He opens the refrigerator and his eyes widen. “Oh,” he shuts the fridge and takes a moment to revel in what he just saw. He opens the fridge again to make sure that he saw what he thinks he saw and it only confirms it. “It’s a head.” He mutters to himself. “A severed head!” He turns to walk back to the living room. How in the hell did Jocelyn not see that and be not terrified out of her bones? Then again, she is a Forensic Analyst. Still, inside the refrigerator?

“Just tea for me, thanks.” Sherlock, unfazed, tells John.

“No, there’s a head in the fridge.” John repeats.

“Yes?” The detective says, unbothered by the information.

“A bloody head!”

Sherlock just doesn’t seem at all bothered. “Well, where else was I supposed to put it?” He claims. “You don’t mind, do you?” He asks in a softer tone while looking at John.

Dr. Watson hesitates. “Well,” he glances back at the fridge, wondering how to deal with a head inside the fridge where they put food in.

“Got it from Bart’s morgue this morning.” Sherlock says. “I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.” He explains easily while John stressfully palms his face. “I see you’ve written up the taxi driver’s case.”

“Uh, yes.” Thank God for a subject change. “Showed it to Jocelyn before I left this morning.”

He ignores what he said about Jocelyn. “A Study in Pink, nice.” He compliments.

John feels proud upon hearing that comment. “Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink.” He watches Sherlock pick up the magazine from the coffee table. “Did you like it?” John asks.

“Um... no.” Sherlock adds a mocking tone and widens his eyes while saying his answer, pretending to read the magazine.

“Why not?” Dr. Watson asks with confusion. “I thought you’d be flattered.”

“Flattered?” He almost scoffs, putting down the magazine. “‘Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’” He quotes his work with some spite, sounding incredibly offended.

John sees why he thinks that way. “Now, hang on a minute. I didn’t mean that—”

“Oh! You meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way.” He mocks. “Look,” he closes his eyes and starts shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister,”

“No, no.” John says with sarcasm and looks away from him.

“—or who’s sleeping with who,”

“Whether the Earth goes around the sun.” John adds.

Sherlock, exasperated, sighs at his words. “Oh, God, that again. It’s not important!” He claims, looking at John with a stern look.

“Not important?” John is gob smacked. “It’s primary school stuff. How can you not know that?” He asks with utter surprise, not believing how someone as smart as Sherlock Holmes can not know how their planet revolves around the sun.

Sherlock covers his face with his palms. “Well, if I ever did, I’ve deleted it.” He says under his breath.

John’s face twists with misunderstanding. “Deleted it?”

Sherlock inhales and sits up. “Listen, this,” he points at his head. “—is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful.” He explains. “ _Really_  useful.”

All of his consciousness must be laughing at him from his usage of words. Good thing he hasn’t made contact in a while.

He slams his palms back onto the table and rolls his eyes. “Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish.” He cringes at the thought, making hand gestures to try to prove a point. “And that makes it hard to get to the stuff that matters. Do you see?” He asks John as if everything he said makes sense.

Dr. Watson looks at him for a moment. “But it’s the solar system!”

Sherlock, defeated, knows that John may never understand. He groans and buries his face into his palms with frustration. “Oh, hell. What does that matter?” He raises his voice. “So we go around the sun. If we went around the moon or, round and round the garden like a teddy bear,” He singsongs to mock the solar system. “It wouldn’t make any difference.” He insists, and John sighs. “All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.” He ruffles his own hair. “Put that in your blog,” he lowers his voice. “Or better still; stop inflicting your opinions to the world.” He stubbornly pushes the magazine on the table and lies back down on the couch, not wanting to speak anymore.

John is offended, but tries not to let it show. Sherlock is correct; it is quite dangerous for other people if he’s bored. Although, he tries to reason with himself, the words still hurt. He purses his lips and hears the door open and close, followed by some chattering. He stands up and grabs his coat before making his way out of the flat.

Sherlock notices and looks over his shoulder. “Where are you going?” He asks in suspicion.

“Out! I need some air.” He snaps and leaves, walking past Jocelyn and Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock glares and just forcefully lies back down on the couch. “Oh, sorry, love.” Mrs. Hudson giggles when bumping into John. He ignores her and proceeds into walking out. Jocelyn raises her brows and holds her hands up as John pushes past her without a word. God, what got under his skin? She helps Mrs. Hudson with her groceries and walks inside the flat as the old woman knocks on the door. “You two had a little domestic?” She teases and makes Jocelyn chuckle, holding the small pack of nicotine patches. She sees Sherlock stand up and over the coffee table, making his way to the window to watch his friend walk away. “Oh, it’s a bit nippy out there. He should’ve wrapped himself up a bit more.” She adds.

Jocelyn hums. “I agree. I’m still shivering.” She huffs as she takes off her coat and gloves, followed by the beanie she’s wearing.

“Look at that, Mrs. Hudson.” He starts. “Quiet, calm, peaceful,”

“Hateful, isn’t it?” Jocelyn smiles, hearing it all before.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder to glance at her, reaching out and held his hand out. She immediately knows what it means and gives him the nicotine patches. “Two at a time.” She lowly says, not wanting Mrs. Hudson to hear. Sherlock snorts and shakes his head, tossing the box into the couch.

“I’m sure something will turn up, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson reassures. “A nice murder, that’ll cheer you up.”

Jocelyn glances at her oddly, but shrugs it off. When has murder ever been nice? A question one should never ask Sherlock.

He hums. “Can’t come too soon.”

Mrs. Hudson sees the wall and gapes. “Hey, what have you done to my bloody wall?” She scoffs and the man only smirks and turns to look at it. “I’m putting this in your rent, young man!” She frowns and walks downstairs to her own flat.

Jocelyn chuckles and watches her leave before turning to Sherlock. “So, I—” She catches him mirroring the smiley face with bullet holes in them, and just laughed. He realizes that she’s still here and drops his smile. “Sherlock—” She starts but gets cut off by herself being thrown into the ground and a loud explosion, her head bumping on the ground. Glass shards flew everywhere and she hears a loud thud of Sherlock’s body pushed to the ground as well. The windows were broken by an enormous force and the two toppled onto the ground together. Jocelyn can hear the car alarm going off from outside and her vision blurs. There was a ringing in her ears and her head was hurting. She can faintly hear Sherlock shuffling towards her, but she can barely see his face. His panicked face.

“Jocelyn! Jocelyn, can you hear me?” He lifts her head from the ground and coughs at how dusty the place became, squinting his eyes as he held her head between his hands. He seems to be uninjured, except for a bruised side.

She slowly lets go from being disoriented and sits up, rubbing her head where it hurts. The man absentmindedly rests his hand on the small of her back, helping her to sit upright. She hisses when seeing blood dripping down her elbow, from one of the glass shards. Sherlock swallows and stares at her with alarm, overwhelmed by his own concern for her wellbeing.  _This is a natural concern, a human would feel awful upon seeing another injured_. He stands up and hesitantly stretches downward to lift her on her feet. Jocelyn tries her best to remain balanced and just thanks him. “What happened?” She winces and keeps a hand where her head made contact to the floor.

Sherlock is still watching her, analyzing where she could be hurt. “Not quite sure. All evidences point to gas leakage.”

“In Baker Street?”

“No, across the street. Two floors were destroyed.” He looks around, seeing the mess in the whole room.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Alerting the police as we speak.”

She sighs in relief and just looks down at her arm. The man sees the blood trickling and so he goes to the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. Jocelyn smiles as he opens the box. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I don’t want blood all over my floorboards. The suspicions of Scotland Yard about me being a murderer might get confirmed. I’m doing this for my sake.” He keeps his voice low as he cleans up her minor wound and wrapping her up with a bandage. She just chuckles at his words and it made Sherlock confused. That’s not how you respond to someone showing no concern for you, in his opinion. “You can take it off by the end of tomorrow.” He quietly says, moving to the couch and cleans it off any dust before sitting down and applying two nicotine patches onto himself.

***

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock sneers, adjusting his button up as he looks at his brother with disregard.

The elder Holmes steps inside the flat, an umbrella in his gloved covered hands. “When the flat of my younger brother is compromised, I’m the first person to be called.” He easily informs and glances around the mess of a home. He winces upon seeing glass shard everywhere on the floor. “Where’s your dearest blogger?” He dryly asks.

Sherlock glares at him. “Out. Most probable inside his lady companion’s house.”

Jocelyn walks in uninvited when she descends from the stairs, eyes widening when seeing Mycroft in the middle of the living room. She falters for a second, but Mycroft offers her a smile. A kind one as well. “Miss Fray. I believe we barely have spoken upon our first reunion.”

She nervously laughs, eyes darting to the left to see Sherlock roll his eyes at Mycroft before taking his violin out. “Yeah, I mean. It’s great to see you again, Mycroft.” She genuinely says, and there is a sudden change on the older Holmes’ expression.

“Yes, it is great to see you as well.” He mumbles, smile fading. “I suppose you’ve done well during your time in New York?”

She offers him a kind smile. “As well as I could.” The young woman gives him a shrug. She feels confused, though. He was so cold towards her when they saw each other again for the first time in eight years. Why does he seem hospitable now?

“Yes, yes. Jocelyn and Mycroft, reunited at last. How  _wonderful_.” Sherlock bitterly remarks before sitting on his usual seat, earning a sigh from Jocelyn.

She turns to Mycroft. “I don’t suppose you’d like something to drink?”

He understands the sudden shift of topic, nodding along her words. “Tea would be best for now.” He answers, as he takes a seat in front of Sherlock. Jocelyn nods and proceeds quietly to the kitchen.

The consulting detective steals a glance at the young woman as he holds the violin in his hands, cleaning them with a rag. Mycroft notices this small interaction and frowns. “Brother mine,” he starts, catching the other man’s attention. “I hope you know why I came here. It’s not only just to check up on you and your…  _guest_.” He carefully addresses the elephant in the room.

“And why did you come here?” Sherlock mocks with a smile.

“The same reason I came by two days ago. A memory stick is missing from the hands of the British Government—”

Sherlock groans. “There was a gas leak nearby my home and you’d rather have me run along the streets doing your work for you?” He says, even though he couldn’t care less about his mess of a home. He only wants to be rid of his brother.

Mycroft knots his brows. “Aren’t you forgetting about the condition we both agreed upon your unwarranted visit yesterday morning?” He offers him a knowing smile.

The younger Holmes clenches his jaw, resting the violin on his lap. Suddenly, footsteps emerged from the steps and Sherlock can hear his name being repeated as he cleans his instrument. It is quite obvious to be John, always worried.

Sherlock plucks a string from his violin and sees the doctor walk inside the messy flat. “John,” he greets. Mycroft looks up at him, and is reminded of their little talk from a few days ago.

John sees Mycroft and presses his lips together. “I saw it in the telly. Are you okay?” He asks with concern.

Sherlock, unable to comprehend worry on people’s faces, just waves it off. “Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine.” He lazily answers. “Gas leak, apparently.”

Jocelyn walks in the living room carrying a tray with teacups and saucers, along with the teapot. The doctor sees the bandage around her arm and frowns. “What happened there?”

She looks down at her arm and just chuckles it off. “I fell on some glass shards. It’s fine now.” She waves it off, offering tea to Mycroft, to which he accepts.

John nods at her, relieved that she’s okay. Mycroft shifts in his seat, sipping his tea. It’s quite impressing how the young woman still remembers how he takes it. In all honesty, Jocelyn ought to have forgotten by now, since it has been years. Jocelyn just gives him a kind smile and proceeds to the kitchen. Mycroft stops her though, turning a bit to glance at her. “Join us, Miss Fray. It won’t do you well to sit in Sherlock’s kitchen while we talk. Come, sit over there.” He gestures to the couch to his right. Jocelyn, out of instinct, only hesitates but she just nods and goes to the couch without another word.

Mycroft gives her a tight-lipped smile. Sherlock feels sick, plucking his violin to mess up the silence. “I can’t.” He responds to what Mycroft said to him earlier.

He senses the shift of topic yet again. “Can’t?”

Sherlock easily locks eyes with him. “Stuff I’ve got on is just too big. I can’t spare the time.” He lies through his teeth.

Mycroft isn’t fazed, but believes him anyway. “Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.”

At his words, Sherlock annoyingly plucks his violin again. “How’s the diet?” He asks all of a sudden.

His brother takes offense. “Fine,” he answers with his eyebrows raised.

Jocelyn crosses her legs and leans against her seat, seeing how John glances at her as if to apologize for the two brother’s bicker. Something tells John that she’s quite used to them bickering. In all Jocelyn’s life, she never thought she’d witness the two brothers taunting one another in a brotherly way again. She never really thought of it during her eight years away from London. Now that she’s actually here to listen to them speak, she realized how much she really missed times like these. Some interactions between Mycroft and Sherlock might not mean anything to the two men but to her, it means so much.

“Perhaps you can get through him, John.” He acknowledges the doctor’s presence in the room.

“What?” John adds, a bit frustrated to be dragged into their family mess.

The eldest Holmes only glances at his little brother. “I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent.” He says, making Jocelyn snort at his fancy words. Mycroft notices and turns to her. “Have an opinion, Miss Fray?”

Sherlock looks at her as she gives his brother a shrug, a slight raise of her left shoulder. “I thought you’re a big deal in London now. Whatever you’re making him do, you can pay people to do, right?” She asks.

Mycroft grimaces, remembering how Jocelyn can be logical yet naive about some things. He recalls when she was a teenager and he was around the age of twenty-six, Jocelyn was a wild young woman. She would be doing something none would expect from a female. Her personality includes being impulsive, loud, and being a complete nuisance. All while being gentle and kind-hearted. He remembered how much she meant to both him and Sherlock. Although, Mycroft can confirm that Sherlock is not that person anymore.

Sherlock sees logic in what she has said, plucking the strings of his violin with his fingers. “If you’re so keen, why don’t you investigate it?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Mycroft mutters. “I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections, so—” He pauses, making all three head snap towards him.

Jocelyn furrows her brows, what does he have to do with the elections far in Asia? It seems to be the same question that the two men were asking themselves when they stared at the eldest Holmes. Mycroft all well catches his mistake and plasters a fake smile. “Well, you all don’t need to know that, do you?” He easily dismisses his mistake. “Besides, a case like this requires…” he cringes. “—leg work.” He says as if the words were difficult to say.

Sherlock plucks an off-key note from his violin and presses his lips together, annoyed. John walks around, rolling his shoulders. Jocelyn notices this and was about to ask about it, when Sherlock beats her to it. “How’s Sarah, John? How was the lilo?” He asks.

“Sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa.” Mycroft corrects, checking his pocket watch.

The younger Holmes does a double take, looking at the shorter man in the room from head to toe. “Oh, yes, of course.” He nonchalantly agrees and looks away, tending to his violin again.

John, exhausted, is about to ask how he figured it out, but drops the subject as he sits next to Jocelyn. She offers him a smile and watches the two siblings trying to one up the other. “Sherlock’s business seems to be booming since you and he became,” Mycroft searches for the word as Sherlock looks at him, as if to say that he should be careful how to describe the relationship between him and John. “—pals. What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.” Mycroft glances at Jocelyn, who only blinks and avoids his eyes.

“I’m never bored.” John claims.

“Good,” the elder Holmes nods. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his brother.  _What is he up to?_  The young woman wonders the same; Mycroft has been acting very strange. However, it’s not exactly her place to assume that, knowing she’s been away for eight years. A person can change in the span of years. She certainly had changed over that course, why shouldn’t he? That’s why she brushes it off whenever Mycroft acts off. He pulls out a folder from his suit, standing up to hand it over to his younger brother who only glares at him. Mycroft seems annoyed by this, but it isn’t a new occurring event for him, that’s why he just relaxes and turns to John. The reason why he came to John a few days ago was that he knew that Sherlock would refuse to listen. To John, however, he’d have the time to spare. “Andrew West. Known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.” He hands the file over to John, who just accepts on behalf of his flatmate.

John opens the file and looks it over. “Jumped in front of the train?”

“Seems the logical assumption.” Mycroft adds to his deduction.

“But?” John looks up at the man.

“But?”

Jocelyn shifts in her seat. “What he’s trying to say is that you wouldn’t be here if it was just an accident.” She grins, and John lets out a short laugh as she said that since he was about to.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock lets out a quite chuckle. He isn’t quite sure why Sherlock did, since his flatmate disliked showing emotions. Jocelyn hears the small little sound and grins to herself. Mycroft narrows his eyes at her, unamused. “The MOD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce-Partington program, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick.”

Jocelyn winces. “What?”

John chuckles. “That wasn’t very clever.” He calls him out, and Sherlock genuinely smiles as he wipes the bow of his violin. He likes it whenever his brother is on the losing side. All the people in Baker Street, against one.

Mycroft plasters a fake smile. “It’s not the only copy.” He drops his smile. “But it is secret. And missing.”

“Top secret?”

“Very.” Mycroft answers Dr. Watson. “We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands.” He admits before he turns his head towards his brother. “You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock.” He tells him, to which Sherlock never replies. Mycroft frowns. “Don’t make me order you.”

Sherlock finishes with cleaning his instrument and rests the violin on his shoulder before looking up at his older brother. “I’d like to see you try.” He lowly says.

Mycroft is unfazed. “Think it over.” He adds with a cold smile before extending his hand towards Watson. “Goodbye, John. See you very soon.” He shakes the doctor’s hand. Mycroft glances at Jocelyn, discreetly flicking his head towards the entrance of the flat as if to say that they need to speak. Jocelyn’s tongue darts out of her mouth to swipe across her lips, wetting it before they’d dry from how nervous she feels. As Mycroft looks away from her and starts walking to the other couch to retrieve his coat, Sherlock starts to play a rapid phrase and his brother walks out.

Jocelyn listens to his footsteps fade away and she stands up. “Well, I’ve got to check up on Mrs. Hudson.” She tells John. Sherlock watches her leave and chooses not to think about it.

John sits back down on the couch as the door closes behind Jocelyn. He glances at the door. “Why’d you lie?” He asks, and Sherlock snaps out of his daze. “You’ve got nothing on. Not a single case. That’s why our wall took a pounding.” He clarifies, confused as to why Sherlock would refuse a case. A case is a case for Sherlock, no matter who delivers it to him. Surely, his brother isn’t one of those exceptions. “Why did you tell your brother you were busy?”

Sherlock looks to his left and holds the bow in his hand, slightly scratching the bow against the back of his head in wonder. He gives his flatmate a shrug. “Why shouldn’t I?”

John raises his brows at him. “Oh.” He dryly mutters.

On the other hand, Jocelyn walks down the stairs and into the pavement of Baker Street, feeling the cold air warp around her small body. She sees Mycroft holding his umbrella and already has his coat on to keep himself warm. She wraps her arms around herself and breathes out white fog from her mouth. The eldest Holmes sibling watches her for a moment, remembering just how everything was like eight years before. Mycroft is secretly pleased to see her, which is why he gives in and opens his arms while frowning; a welcome. Jocelyn tries to fight off her stinging eyes and steps forward while sniffling once, wrapping her arms around his torso, her forehead on his shoulder as she inhales his cologne. Mycroft leans down to embrace her, sighing to himself. Eight years, he never thought he’d be able to see her again. As much as he didn’t want her to be in Baker Street within Sherlock’s arm of reach, it was good to see her again. Maybe during the first time he saw her, it didn’t seem that way, but he did indeed miss her.

Jocelyn leans into his embrace, smiling. “I hope this wasn’t just because I was cold.” She jokingly says.

“Isn’t it? I can hardly tell, myself.” He closes his eyes and squeezes for a second before letting go. “You’ve grown.” He tilts his head down to look at her. “No longer have your dyed hair, I believe?”

Jocelyn chuckles, remembering how it was the first thing that Sherlock noticed. “Yeah, I changed it back to its natural color.” She nods. “You, well,” she pauses. “—certainly had lost some weight.” She points out, not to joke about it but to say that he looks healthier than ever. That makes her so happy.

At that, Mycroft’s lips curled up just a little bit. “It’s good to see you again, Jocelyn.” He admits.

She looks down at her feet for a moment and smiles, looking at him again. “You too.”

“May I ask, what are you doing here?” He goes straight to the point, his smile fading.

She remembers, of course she does. Everything about her past, she remembers. This is why she lets out a scoff, looking around the busy streets of London. “I don’t know. It just happened.” She truthfully says.

Mycroft stares at her for a brief moment. “When I came here, I asked Dr. Watson that I can make arrangements to move you to a different place. Far from Baker Street.” He rests both his hands on the top of the umbrella.

A look of confusion writes itself on her face. “He never told me any of that.” Her speaking was slow.

He only offers a smile. “I figured. Dr. Watson is loyal quite quickly. I’d say he’s taken a liking towards you.” He claims.

She just sighs and grins. “Me too, he’s been a really good friend to me.”

Mycroft nods. “As he is to my brother, as well.” He agrees. “I must go, Sherlock will complain if he sees me still around. You know what he’s like.”

Jocelyn hesitates. “Do I? Still?” She mutters, feeling a little colder now from the wind.

The older Holmes just gives her a nod. “His antics haven’t changed that much, I can assure you. He’s just a bit…” He looks for the word. “Well, let’s just say he’s not keen with feeling emotions even though he’s an expert with human behavior.” He tells her. “He tends to equate emotions to chemistry and science, which easily makes him understand in a way none normally would. I should be careful on what to say around him.” She just nods, knowing that already. She is about to go back inside the building when Mycroft stops her. “Jocelyn,”

She turns and sees a car pull up right behind Mycroft. “Yes?”

“I hope you won’t make the same mistake again.” He reminds her, not giving her a chance to reply as he opens the car door and climbs inside.

She stands there, frowning to herself as she watched the car drive away. The cold keeps seeping through her dress, making her shiver and go back inside. Mycroft’s words keep echoing inside her head.

\--

Sherlock opened the door upon hearing some knocking. He figured that it may be his roommate, but he did tell him that he’ll be attending some sort of varsity game. Which was why he felt confused upon hearing the knock. When the door was opened, he was met by the blue haired girl he met a week ago. She had the biggest grin on her face and she was wearing one of her usual dresses and black boots.

“I ordered pizza and stuffed crust with garlic.” She held up a paper bag and thin square pizza box.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “What are you doing here?”

From his tone, her smile faded a bit but it stayed on. “Well, I thought that maybe we could hang out since it’s Friday and there’s a big football game happening somewhere, that we are not attending. I figured that we could just, you know, watch a movie together?” She widens her grin awkwardly.

The boy glances behind him, closing his door slightly until his body was the only thing that was peeking out. She finally frowns, realizing that he was blocking the view to his room. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He realized, since this building only allowed male students.

“Relax, I know the guard. Being a school officer really has its perks.” She showed off, smirking at him as she chuckled.

“Our performance was over two days ago,” now he’s just spitting out reasons for her not to come inside.

Jocelyn’s smile faded completely, shoulders tensing. “And… you’re just going to cast me aside?” She asked.

“What? No— _no!”_ Sherlock denied, half-whispering with his narrowed eyes.

“What is it then? And why are you whispering?” She asked with her normal voice.

Sherlock let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. “I just thought, you know,” he made gestures and she only stared at him with more confusion.

The more he tried to explain with no words, the slower Jocelyn understood. Nevertheless, she gets there, and the realization makes her frown. “The other way around, then? You thought I was just going forget about your existence just because our performance is over?” She asked. Sherlock looks relieved that she understood, but at the same time, he was sheepish. He pursed his lips and leaned his head against the side of the door, nodding. Jocelyn shook her head and smiled. “You know I’d never do that.”

There have been many instances wherein a person leaves Sherlock after taking what they needed from him; he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Jocelyn was the same. Although, he’d be disappointed the most if she does the same. He gave her a nod and hesitated, before pushing the door open again to let her in. Jocelyn walked in and stopped upon seeing another person inside the room. She awkwardly smiles at him, seeing how he sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, or maybe the roommate’s bed. She wasn’t sure, it was her first time being inside his dorm room.

Sherlock glared at him. “This my brother, Mycroft.” He introduced. “Mycroft, this is Jocelyn. She performed with me at the show.”

His brother, Mycroft stands up, wearing a proper white button-up shirt and black dress pants. “Miss Fray. I’ve heard quite a lot about you. My brother has a talkative personality, as you can tell. I do apologize for missing the quite  _controversial_  performance everyone has been discussing.” He smiled, and Jocelyn glances at Sherlock who was grimacing at the scene in front of him. She needn’t know that he talked about her to his own brother. “Although, Sherlock left out the bit where you had, err,” he paused. “—bright blue hair.”

Jocelyn laughs and puts down the pizza box to shake his hand. “The pleasure is all mine, Mycroft Holmes.” She grinned happily. Mycroft raises an eyebrow at Sherlock while shaking her hand, upon realizing just how hyperactive and enthusiastic she really is. “I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

Sherlock suppressed a smile as he takes a deep breath. “Well, brother mine, it’s best if you leave. Wouldn’t want to miss that dinner party, now would we?” He literally grabbed his brother by the shoulders and leads him up to the outside of the dorm.

Mycroft’s brows knot in confusion. “Sherlock—”

“Goodbye!” He offered his brother a grin before slamming the door to his face. Jocelyn burst out laughing, sitting down on the carpeted ground as she took out their food for the movie. “So, you talk about me to your brother, eh?” She teased and took one slice of the pizza.

Sherlock sighed, walking towards her before sitting down at the edge of the bed. “He asked about you, what was I supposed to answer?”

“He’s just like you, you know?” She chuckled.

“How?”

“Talking in fancy words like old Brits,” she bit into the pizza and started chewing, swallowing quickly to speak. “And he talks with some kind of suave, do you know what I mean?” She prepared herself. “Miss Fray, I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” she mocked his way of talking, only exaggerating it and amusing Sherlock. “My God, you two talk the same. If I had a sibling, I would force her or him to speak in a smart way, because you and I both know that I can’t do that,”

“Of course, you can, Miss Forensic Analyst.” He turned on the television and the DVD.

“Forensic Analyst.” She hummed. “As if I’ll ever become one.”

“I think you’d make a fine Forensic Scientist.” Sherlock disagrees with her words. “What movie are you planning to watch?”

She smiled gratefully at Sherlock, wondering why he doesn’t have any other friends. He’s great company when one could get past the rude deductions and blunt facts. In fact, she has never met someone more eccentric than Sherlock. “Pulp Fiction.” She answered with a smirk.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Haven’t you watched that movie already? Why would you propose on watching it again?”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock, just play it.” She threw a pillow at him, chuckling when he remained unfazed by the impact and proceeded with inserting the disk into the DVD player.

Sherlock goes to sit on the edge of the bed again, but Jocelyn pulled him down to the ground. He was caught off guard but remained poised as he sat down on the carpeted floor with her, watching as the starting credits rolled. He glanced at her face, the light from the television screen illuminated her and defined her high cheekbones. He couldn’t explain in, but he could feel his breath catching on his throat. He couldn’t breathe for a second and scientifically, he never thought it was possible for anyone to be all right with being unable to breathe.


	7. The Cigarette

Jocelyn keeps to herself inside the flat. It’s been her thing to do the cleaning up. Obviously because she likes cleaning for some awful reason that the two men still don’t understand. The two men were already on their way out when Jocelyn came back up after her brief talk with Mycroft Holmes. On the way out, John tells her it was for another case and bids her goodbye before telling her to keep safe, while Sherlock barely acknowledges her except for sighting at her in the eye for God knows what reason. She will never understand Sherlock, and probably never will.

That was an hour ago, and now she sits with Mrs. Hudson inside of the flat. The landlady is now just sorting out the mess that Sherlock created on the kitchen table yet again. “Oh, Lord. Sherlock has to have a separate room or table for his science gimmick and whatnot. It’s not decent to have them all scattered all over the kitchen.” She complains to her, making the young woman smile warmly at her. “I always tell him, but he never listens to me. He only listens to John, and even he can’t make him unclean this mess.”

Jocelyn decides to help her with the mess and is very careful not to break any of the lab equipment. She uses the same equipment back in her New York lab, so she can tell what kind of experiments that he runs. She doesn’t know why he has to do them inside his flat, it could be dangerous to perform such experiments inside a home.

“Mrs. Hudson!” They hear a call from downstairs.  _Sherlock._

The two women look at one another and scurry downstairs to meet with the group of men. Jocelyn notices that there was another man, whom she has never seen or met before. He must look like a detective from what he is wearing. The man, taking notice of the young woman who just came down from his colleagues’ flat, raises his eyebrows in surprise. John sees them descend from the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Jocelyn asks, letting Mrs. Hudson walk past her to go to Sherlock.

“I need the keys to this flat, it will only take a second.” Sherlock informs his proprietor and she obliges, walking back to her flat.

The young woman angles off to the man she hasn’t been introduced to. “Hello, I’m Jocelyn.” She sticks her hand out to wait for a handshake.

The man, completely star struck by her, looks like a fool as he reaches for her hand and shakes. Jocelyn remains quite oblivious and just smiles. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sorry, do you live here?” He glances at John, who gives him half a shrug.

“Only temporary. John’s letting me stay here.” She sheepishly mentions.

Lestrade nods in understanding. “I see,” his voice trails off as he takes one last glance at her and tears his eyes away. Sherlock’s brows knot in a glare at Greg, and shifts his focus back to the numbers engraved on the door.

When Mrs. Hudson comes back with the keys, she starts chattering about how no one would take the room since it was damp at times. She was ignored all throughout, and it made Jocelyn frown. She will probably ask about the topic someday. Jocelyn walks inside of Mrs. Hudson’s flat to have tea with her.

Sherlock opens the door and walks inside the room, seeing a pair of shoes in the middle of it, neatly placed on the ground. The three men stare at it, very confused as to why there would be shoes in the room.

“Shoes,” John mumbles to himself.  As Sherlock proceeds to walk near it, John stops him. “He’s a bomber, remember?” He quickly reminds and the consulting detective proceeds with caution. Sherlock kneels down and goes into some push-up form to identify the shoes when the phone starts to ring to his surprise. He lets out a breath of relief and stands up, removing one glove to press answer to the phone, knowing that it was a blocked number calling. The other men stare at him while he answered, anxious about what it could be.

Sherlock hesitates. “Hello.” He softly answers.

The voice coming from the phone sounded terrified, Sherlock can tell by the breathing pattern. “H-hello, sexy.” It was a woman, struggling to speak.

Sherlock ignores the endearment. “Who’s this?”

“I’ve… sent you… a little puzzle,” she sniffles. “—just to say hi.” She is breathing heavily and sounded as if she sobbed for an entire hour.

“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?” Sherlock has no idea what was happening and that rarely happens, only deduction he can come up with is that the person talking isn’t really a culprit, but a hostage being forced to speak.

The shaky voice still continues to cry. “I… I’m not crying. I’m typing,” And that only confirms his suspicions. “And this… stupid bitch… is reading it out.” She is pausing between every two words to breathe or to sniffle, and she sounds absolutely terrified out of her mind. John gulps, not really understanding the situation as fast as Sherlock ever could.

Sherlock is finally realizing who might be behind it all. That one name that cab driver uttered before his death. Sherlock knows who’s doing this. “The curtain rises,” he mumbles in realization, eyes widening slightly.

John hears him despite the low voice. “What?” Lestrade stands behind him, just as confused as the doctor does.

“Nothing,” Sherlock absentmindedly conveys.

“No, what did you mean?” He presses.

Sherlock rotates his head to the left slightly, a blank expression on his face. “I’ve been expecting this for some time.” He explains, but John still doesn’t understand. Neither did Lestrade.

The voice continues talking. “Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock.” She sniffles. “Or I’m going to be… so,” she pauses to swallow. “Naughty,” she sobs before hanging up.

Sherlock blinks a couple times and knows for sure that this woman is a hostage. In addition, his only clue is a pair of shoes. This is going to be an interesting day. Watson, Holmes made their way to St. Barts. Sherlock plans to have the shoes examined. Lestrade already went back to Scotland Yard.

“So, who do you suppose it was?”

“Hm?” Sherlock asks, and both their phones beep at the same time. Although, John checks his immediately, Sherlock’s phone stays inside his jacket.

John walks as habit. “Woman on the phone, the crying woman.”

“Oh, she doesn’t matter, she’s just a hostage. No lead there.” Sherlock coldly states.

John isn’t surprised by how heartless his words were. It was typical of him to say that, but that doesn’t mean John can’t be angry about Sherlock’s beliefs. “For God’s sake, I wasn’t talking about leads.” He winces, looking down at his own phone.

“You’re not going to be much use to her.”

“Are they even trying to trace it? The call?” John insists, worrying about the woman at the end of the line.

“One is too smart for that,” John palms his forehead upon hearing those words. Sherlock notices how John keeps typing into his phone and the sound is starting to become annoying. He inhales and bluntly speaks to John. “Can your phone be a bit quieter?” Sherlock asks after turning an eye upon him from the microscope.

John lifts his head. “I’m only speaking to Jocelyn.” He nonchalantly reveals.

The detective leans back. “Why?”

Dr. Watson grins at his curiosity. “She’s asking if she could bring us any snacks,” he informs Sherlock, making him roll his eyes and views back into the microscope. “I asked her to come to St. Barts.”

Sherlock snaps his head towards him. “We’re already seeing each other for hours in a day and I need to see her here as well?” Sherlock audibly sighs through his nose, shaking his head.

John scoffs. “She barely goes around London and she might live in this city someday. It would be nice of us to show her around.”

“In the middle of a case?”

“You already brought her along the banker case, what’s so different about now?”

“Because,” Sherlock pauses. “Something is wrong with this case, I know it. It’s different and so far, it’s not boring me.” He informs John. “Pass me my phone.” Sherlock commands as he hears his phone beep again for the second time.

John can’t believe how easily Sherlock brushes off a human life, but he shouldn’t be surprised. And he isn’t. “Where is it?”

“Jacket.” He states. When Dr. Watson realizes that Sherlock is still wearing his jacket, he glares at him and goes to force the phone outside of his clothing. “Careful,” Sherlock reminds sternly, to which John only ignores and pulls out the phone. He checks the messages. “Texts from your brother.”

“Delete it.”

“Delete it?”

“Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.” Sherlock deduces, ignoring the Bruce-Partington Plans and continues with his current case.

“Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He’s texted you eight times. Must be important.” John scrolls through the texts and sees Jocelyn’s name in one of the texts. He stops to read the text.

_‘RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS_

_Have Jocelyn Fray do the forensic work for the case. I’ve heard she’s capable of doing so._

_Mycroft’_

John opens his mouth to tell him about this, but Sherlock talks over him. “Let me guess, he wants me to involve Jocelyn into the case just because she works as a Forensic Scientist.” Sherlock coldly professes, not looking up from the microscope. “If he wants to speak to me so badly, why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment?” He tells John as if it would make sense to him.

“His what?”

“Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look,” he exhales, looking up from what he was viewing through his microscope. “Andrew West stole those plans, tried to sell them and got his head smashes in for his pains. End of story.” He finished. “The only mystery is why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?” He goes back to his examination.

John frowns. “Try to remember there’s a woman who might die.”

“What for?” He casts a glance at John, blue eyes icily boring to Watson’s. “There’s hospitals full of people dying,  _Doctor_.  Why don’t you go cry by their bedside? See what good it does then.” Sherlock snaps at him.

While they were bickering, Jocelyn leaves the cab after paying and enters the hospital. She observes for someone and spots a young man. She feels a bit anxious but brushes it off. “Uh, hi,” she tries catching his attention and walks towards him. “Do you work here?” She asks.

The man offers her a smile. “Yes, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Hooper’s lab?” She tells him. “I feel like this place is very big, I might get lost. Do you know where it is?”

The man’s eyes light up and something told Jocelyn that he knew where the place was. “Yes, I do know. I’m actually on my way there now. I can take you there.” He offers.

Jocelyn leans back and crosses her arms, looking around in the hospital and seeing some people walk in and out of rooms, scurrying across hallways. “Really?”

The man nods at her. “Come on.” He flicks his head towards the other hallway, already walking

She stammers, laughing nervously. “Uh, I’m Jocelyn. Jocelyn Fray.” She introduces herself.

“Oh, um,” He lets out a chuckle. “Jim, I work in IT.” He shakes her hand and leads her to Dr. Hooper’s lab. Whilst walking, Jim glances down at her. “What’s your business here? If you don’t mind me asking.” His tone is friendly and very welcoming, it makes Jocelyn feel relaxed

Jocelyn shifts her head to eye him for a second. “I have friends there, they might be working on something.” She offers him a smile, and he nods along before looking straight ahead of himself. “One of them asked me to come along, and I desperately needed to get out of the house. I’ve been doing nothing for the past few days.” She shrugs. “It’s so cold in London, as well.”

“You don’t like the cold?”

The question makes her laugh. “I quite like the cold. It’s just different where I’m from.” She tilts her head. “Cold is nice.”

Jim nods in agreement. Her words make him laugh a bit. “I’m going to be honest, I’m actually dating Molly. So, I’m warning you.” He grins at her, making a funny face as he stops in front of a door to open it.

Upon entering, Jim seems a bit shy and timid. Jocelyn stays behind the door and waits for Jim to walk in. She can hear a woman’s voice call out to him and he finally steps inside the room, with Jocelyn following suit. She scans the room almost immediately, it’s much fancier than the lab she has back in New York. She doesn’t recognize the woman wearing a lab coat, but she notices the other two men. The woman must be Dr. Molly Hooper. John is standing next to Sherlock, they were both surveying back and forth between Jim and Jocelyn. Sherlock almost rolls his eyes, but focuses back on his examination. He only has eleven hours left, he needs to be quick about this.

Jocelyn greets John and tries not to bother Sherlock as much. “Hey, what’s all this?”

“Case, how’s your arm?” He asks, eyes going down to her arm and noticed how she already took the bandage off.

“It’s fine now, don’t worry about it.” She brushes him off.

The woman briefly glances at her, and proceeds to tend with her boyfriend. “Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.” She gestures towards the consulting detective, who pays them no mind. As per usual. “And, uh,” She trails off as she looks at John. “Sorry,” She sheepishly says.

John clears his throat. “John Watson, hi.” He pursed his lips together, knowing that was coming. Of course, she didn’t know his name. Never bothered to ask whilst he was running around behind Sherlock. But John knew her already, his flatmate mentions her sometimes. And clearly, Molly was keen about the consulting detective, even if she masks it with a boyfriend. Jocelyn introduces herself to Molly with a polite handshake, wondering how many times she has introduced herself today.

“Hi,” Jim responds to John, but immediately twists to the detective. “So, you’re Sherlock Holmes.” He gently clasps his hands together. Jocelyn watches the couple and notices how the woman, Molly, seems to be more interested with whatever Sherlock is doing. By the way she fixes her gaze upon him. She wonders if there is some sort of story behind it, but knowing him, some of those stories never end well. “Molly’s told me all about you. You on one of your cases?” He asks and proceeds to walk around the chair that the consulting detective was sitting on. John steps aside to let him pass, appearing a bit cautious as he glances at the other young woman. Jocelyn shakes her head, silently telling him it’s fine.

“Jim works in IT upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.” Molly claims with a happy smile, almost as if she was showing off her boyfriend. However, from what Jocelyn has gathered, she just seems to be bragging about it to Sherlock, almost as if to make him jealous.

However, it doesn’t work. While the couple is laughing things off, Sherlock takes one glance at Jim and goes back at his experiment. “Gay,” he mutters.

Jocelyn raises her brows in surprise. John only closes his eyes, knowing this won’t end well for any of them. Jim is, well, he is unfazed. Actually, he is smiling for some reason. Molly isn’t happy with his tiny comment and her smile drops instantly. “Sorry, what?”

“Nothing. Um, hey.” Sherlock plays it off, nodding at Jim.

Jim has his eyes on Sherlock the entire time. “Hi,” he airs before accidentally knocking down a petri dish and scrambles on to pick it up from the ground. “Sorry, sorry,” he nervously laughs it off.

Sherlock looks upon him and slowly shifts away his gaze, the atmosphere is thickening with awkward. Jocelyn goes to help, but Jim shakes his head, telling her it’s fine while he stands back up and puts the dish where it was before. Sherlock, now annoyed, looks away and blinks rapidly to control his impulse in just analyzing him on the spot to put him in his place. Jim goes to leave and says goodbye to just Sherlock, which almost makes Jocelyn smile upon realizing that Jim might be attracted to him. She feels bad, though, knowing how no one will ever get the chance.

“What do you mean ‘gay’?” Molly asks Sherlock when Jim is out of the room. “We’re together.” She smiles, not sure if she should ask the question.

Sherlock cranes his neck to face her. “And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.”

“Sherlock,” Jocelyn mutters. Can’t he take a day off from being a dick?

“Two and a half,” Molly argues.

Sherlock makes a sound of disagreement. “Three.” He easily repeats.

John leered at Jocelyn, and then glances back at his flatmate. “Sherlock,”

Molly looks infuriated. She dislikes it whenever Sherlock gets under her skin. She remembers feeling so glad that Sherlock never OD’ed from using her syringes, but right now, she’s angry at him for ruining how she views her relationship, again. “He’s not gay!” She insists. “Who do you have to spoil— _he’s not_.” Her voice is becoming louder and angrier.

Sherlock scoffs. “With that level of personal grooming?” He has a mischievous smile on his face, as if he figured out everything.

John narrows his eyes. “Because he puts a bit of product on his hair? I put product in my hair.” John goes to defend Dr. Hooper, who offers him a grateful smile.

Sherlock shakes his head. “You wash your hair, there’s a difference.” He replies as if it makes sense. “No, no. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber’s eyes. Then, there’s his underwear—”

“Sherlock, enough.” Jocelyn steps in and gives Sherlock a glare. The consulting detective leans back on his seat and locks their gazes. As much as he tries to intimidate her, it won’t work. They stare intently at one another for a second and she wonders what he might be thinking of. She only assumes it’s something between the lines of hatred, and just insults upon whatever he deduced about her right at this second. “Just because a man decides to increase his level of hygiene, or parties every now and then, doesn’t mean he’s a homosexual. A lot of men do feminine things which have nothing to do with their sexuality.” She sides with Molly, who’s now frowning at the things Sherlock said before. Jocelyn sympathizes her, she never deserved that.

Sherlock has a blank expression on his face while listening to her speak. After a moment, he finally opened his mouth to inhale. “That, plus the suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here,” He lifts the dish and Jocelyn is surprised to see a paper slip with scribbles on it. John sighs, crossing his arms. He predicted this, Sherlock ruining everyone’s day in the matter of seconds. She stands gaping at him while he turns to the opposite side to face Molly. “And I’d say you’d better break it off now to save yourself the pain.” He bluntly tells her.

Molly glances at Jocelyn, who shakes her head and looks down, before running off outside the lab, slamming the door behind her.

“Charming, well done.” John sarcastically remarks. The young woman just feels defeated. She did her best to defend Dr. Hooper and still failed. She can’t believe that she just let Sherlock overpower her.

However, Jocelyn sees the confusion on Sherlock’s face and is instantly reminded of how he can barely comprehend human emotions. This is no difference since he seems to be confused by how Molly reacted. “Just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?” He asks John.

John winces. “Kinder? No, no. That wasn’t kind.” He informs Sherlock.

“You hurt her, Sherlock.” Jocelyn adds, disappointed by his actions.

“Yes, and in the process, I showed her the truth.” He argues, and it silences her. Yes, he did, but he could have done it in a lighter note. Being blunt about everything won’t solve all problems, it’ll only cause more pain. Sherlock realizes that none of them will argue with that and gestures towards the shoes at John. “Go on, then.”

“Hm?”

“You know what I do, off you go.”

John chuckles wryly, checking his wristwatch. “Oh, no.”

“Go on,” Sherlock insists as Jocelyn watches the two bicker.

“I’m not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and—”

“And outside eye, a second opinion. It’s very useful to me.” He explains.

“I’ll do it.” Jocelyn walks towards the shoes and John just lets her pass. She looks at Sherlock and gives him a sly smile. She’s a Forensic Analyst; these are the things she’s good at. Sherlock observes her with crossed arms. Jocelyn takes a pair of latex gloves and puts them on, taking one of the shoes and lifting them to eye level. “These are original shoes, limited edition. I see you’ve looked up the year, Sherlock. The shoes are twenty years old.” She mutters, making his lips part and look down at his phone. “The color of the shoes faded, but it turned paler than how it originally is. Probably because it’s been washed or scrubbed several times.” She looks inside the shoe. “There’s traces of ink inside,” her brows furrows in confusion. “A child owned these. And there are some of these flakes on the laces and flap,” she takes a tweezers from Sherlock’s things and carefully plucked one of them out. “It’s skin, whoever owned these possibly has eczema, but that seems unlikely.” She puts the tweezers down. “These shoes are old, owned by a person during their childhood.”

“That can’t be true,” John wondered aloud, all while Sherlock stares at Jocelyn. She just unveiled everything that he deduced, apart for some things that only Sherlock would notice. “There’s still mud on them.” The doctor points towards the bottom of the shoe.

“Someone’s kept them that way.” Sherlock trails off, taking the shoe from Jocelyn’s hands. “Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it’ from Sussex with London mud overlaying it.”

“How do you know that?” John reeled back.

Sherlock nods to the machine in front of him. “Pollen.”

“Impressive.” Jocelyn preached, nodding slowly.

Her words make the consulting detective squint at her. They stare at one another for a moment and Sherlock continues to speak, not breaking their eye contact. “Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too.” He glances off her and goes back to the machine. “So the kid wore these trainers, came to London from Sussex, twenty years ago and left them behind.” Sherlock deduces. Jocelyn senses something is off from what he implied. It almost sounds like—

“What happened to him?”

“Something bad.” He murmured, looking at John. “He loved those shoes, remember. He’d never leave them filthy. Wouldn’t let them go unless he had to.” Sherlock shakes his head. “So, a child with big feet gets…” He stops himself, face dawning with what he just remembers.

“Sherlock,” Jocelyn begins. “Shoes.” From her words, she comes to a realization.

“Oh,” he echoed.

John watches him. “What?”

“Carl Powers.” He names.

Jocelyn’s suspicions are confirmed as well. She remembers this story, Sherlock mentioned it to her once or twice. It was his very first case, one that none of the adults would indulge themselves in. Sherlock would’ve been eight or nine when it happened, and he still ended up to be the smartest one in the room.

“Sorry, who?” John shifts his weight from one foot to another.

“Carl Powers, he was a boy who attended a swimming championship. He died in a swimming pool, everyone assumed it was some sort of stroke while swimming. It happened around twenty years ago.” Jocelyn crosses her arms.

“Astonishing that you remember.” Sherlock grumbles out, still in deep thought.

She cracks a smile. “How could I forget? It was your first case.”

“Hold on, if it was twenty years ago, you would’ve been eight.” John grimaces. “You’re telling me that Sherlock got his first case at eight years old?”

“It wasn’t my case. I only observed and saw that something wasn’t right. I tried telling the police, but they didn’t want to waste their time.” Sherlock remembers, standing up to gather his things and the shoes. “Adults hate having their time wasted by a child, so I was paid no mind. Still, I tried to investigate, but never really found anything. It remains a cold case, but for Scotland Yard, it’s closed.”

“Wait, what did you see that wasn’t right?” John sighs as the two followed after Sherlock, who walks out of the room without another word.

Sherlock hails a cab and the three of them slide inside. Jocelyn sits in the middle and peers over at Sherlock. “You could’ve apologized to Dr. Hooper on the way out.”

John scoffs, as if it would happen. Sherlock gazed at him with a frown and goes back to the shoes. While the car drives off, Sherlock explains to John. “Carl Powers came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament and drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn’t remember it. Why should you?” His eyes dart to Jocelyn. “She does.”

“Something fishy about it?”

“Nobody thought so. Nobody except me.” Sherlock declares. “I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.”

“You started young, didn’t you?” John mocks.

He ignores it. “The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late.”

Jocelyn has heard this story before, but hearing him talk about it again does bring grim memories. A boy died, yet Sherlock talks about it with such fascination. It isn’t as if he wants to punish the culprit, or he just likes the thrill of solving it all and impressing everyone. No, Jocelyn knows it’s because Sherlock seeks justice for the good. It’s all she believes in, really. Solving cases isn’t just some somewhat high that Sherlock craves, he likes to bring justice.

Sherlock glances behind the car. “There was something wrong somewhere. I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

“What?”

“His shoes.”

“What about them?”

“They weren’t there.” Sherlock explains. John nods, understanding now. “I made a fuss, I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important.” He trails off. “He’d left all the rest of his clothes in the locker. But there was no sign of his shoes.” He leans down to grab the shoes that were inside a plastic bag. “Until now.”

When they reach Baker Street, Jocelyn helps Sherlock gather all the information about Carl Powers. It’s a relief to see them finally helping one another, or rather, Sherlock letting her help. John finds it very pleasing that he decides to make her useful. Now a few hours later, Sherlock sits in the kitchen quietly while Jocelyn and John lounge around the living room.

“So, what’s happening? Why is he suddenly so invested in Carl Powers?” Jocelyn curiously asks. “Where did he get the shoes?”

John sighs. “Someone is behind all this. Even the potential gas leak from last night, someone was behind that as well.”

Jocelyn gapes at him. “What?”

“The gas leak explosion, it wasn’t actually a gas leak. Though, it was made to look like one.” John tells her and Jocelyn frowns.

“Who would do that?” She breathily whispers.

“We don’t know who, but whoever this person is, has a woman in hostage. If we don’t crack this puzzle, she might die.” He anxiously explains. “Which in this case,” he lets out a groan while standing from his chair, walking to the kitchen and sliding the door open. “Can I help?” John asks and sees how Sherlock is skimming through the files that he and Jocelyn have gathered. “I want to help. There’s only five hours left.”

Jocelyn’s eyes widen. There’s a time limit?  _Christ, that’s sadistic_. She wonders who the hostage may be. It doesn’t matter, she’s still a hostage. Whoever she is, she needs to be saved.

John’s phone beeps and he pulls it out of his pocket to read the text. “It’s your brother. He’s texting  _me_  now.” He pauses. “How did he get my number?”

“Must be a root canal.” Sherlock implies, talking over him.

Dr. Watson walks inside the kitchen and glances at Jocelyn in the living room, who is looking outside the window, needing a smoke. He studies Sherlock and the mess he created in the kitchen. “Look, he did say National Importance.”

Sherlock scoffs. “How quaint.”

“What is?”

“You are.” Sherlock keeps scanning through his files as if he isn’t just talking about something very significant to the country. “Queen and country.”

“I don’t know if you’ve read some of his texts, but he asked for Jocelyn, specifically, to be the one to perform forensics for your part.” Watson tells him.

He makes a sound of distaste.  _Of course he would do that, why wouldn’t he?_  “She doesn’t work for the British Government. For all we know, she’s still part of the police department in New York. Mycroft can, modernly speaking, stick it.” He mocks with a glare.

“You can’t just ignore it.” Watson sternly makes known.

“I’m not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it, right now.” Sherlock enlightens him.

John crosses his arms, relieved. “Right, good.” He clears his throat. “Who’s that?”

Sherlock finally eyed him, giving him a knowing look. It dawns over at John and his shoulders sag, rolling his eyes in frustration as he walks out of the kitchen to grab his coat and leave. Sherlock grins to himself, going back to work. Jocelyn notices John’s abrupt leave, so she slowly paces to the kitchen and leans against the sliding door. Sherlock notices her presence, looking at her through his lashes and refuses to stop working.

Jocelyn hesitates. “Remember when you first told me about Carl Powers?” When she talked, Sherlock inhaled and exhaled as if to prepare himself.

_Yes, I do. We were sitting nearby a tree in the campus. I remember the book you were reading, what page you were on, and how it was bookmarked by a green paperclip that you stole from the Professors’ lounge. I remember the dress you were wearing, I remember the way you did your hair, I remember the dirt on the side of your shoes, I remember how thicker your accent is compared to now. I remember the weather’s temperature, the date, the time; everything._

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock utters, devoid of emotion.

Jocelyn nods, flushing. “Stupid question. Of course, you don’t. It’s been years.” She says with a laugh. “I think I was wearing an awful pink dress.”  _Wrong, it was blue. Correct, it was awful._ “But anyway, listening to you talk about it was… illuminating.” She finishes with a smile.

“Poetic or truth?” he asks without lifting his eyes away from the microscope.

“Truth.” She admits. “It made me admire you a lot.”

He stops, blinking twice and finally fixes his gaze on her. Jocelyn freezes under his eyes. No, she doesn’t feel anything for him. Not anymore, of course. It’s been years, that fades along with it. This is why she can’t understand why her body is reacting this way, weakening in front of him. She feels tensed, not in an intimidated way, but in a way that if he doesn’t stop looking at her with those icy blue eyes, and she might do something she’ll regret. What’s going on with her? The situation feels humiliating.

He finally tears his eyes off her and she let out a breath she didn’t know she held. “I have to finish this—”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Jocelyn immediately agrees, wanting to leave the room already. “Okay, uh, well, I’ll be upstairs.” She informs, going to to slide the door close.

“Jocelyn,”

She stops and turns on her heels to look upon him. “Yes?”

He waits for a second before shaking his head. “Never mind,” he simply mutters and goes back to looking under the microscope.

Jocelyn purses her lips and made no attempt to further the conversation, sliding the doors close as she ascends upstairs. Sherlock listens to her footsteps fade and sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the skin between his eyebrows.  _What was he going to say? Why did he even call out her name?_  He’s practically humiliated himself.

When he opens his eyes, he scowls upon realizing that he’s in his mind palace. The ivory walls of the flat remains its color, he wonders what the flat would look like now. The color has faded away over the years, probably. Alternatively, if there are new residents, then the walls must be covered with wallpaper. Never mind that, he feels absolutely frustrated over the fact that he’s back here again. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Oh, technically, you  _do_  have time for this.” He picks up her voice from right behind him. He wheels around to peer at her, and she’s wearing the same dress as she is right now. Sherlock didn’t even notice how he, himself, noticed what she was wearing. Must be a habit then, and he hates it. “Miss me?”

He scoffs and the sound makes her grin. “What happened in there, Sherlock?”

The man sighs, looking around the place. “Well, you’ve admitted that you admired me from the very start.”

Jocelyn tilts her head. “It’s not like I was hiding that.”

Sherlock drew back. “I didn’t know that.” She can’t possibly say something that Sherlock had no knowledge about. She is his consciousness, installed into a person.

“Oh, you knew. You’ve always known.” She insists. “It’s one of the things you prided yourself with. I always made that ego of yours inflate, it’s something I did all the bloody time.” She teases.

Sherlock angrily sneers at her. “Why am I back here?”

She isn’t fazed by his sudden change of emotion. “Why do you think?”

He clenches his jaw, because she got him. He has no clue why he’s here. He didn’t need his consciousness right now. In fact, she is useless to him at the moment. “I’m on the middle of an important case—”

She makes a mocking sound. “Cases, when are you never on a case?” She shakes her head and circles him, hands intertwined together.

“This case is different. There’s something about it that I can’t put my finger on.”

Jocelyn coos. “Sherlock Holmes hates not being able to figure things out.” She grins. “What do you suppose is happening to that woman right now?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I… I don’t know.”

“Come on, think. You do know.”

Sherlock groans. “I don’t know, isn’t that what you want to hear?” He snaps at her. “Nonetheless, she doesn’t matter. She’s only a hostage so there’s not lead there.” He recites.

Jocelyn gives him a frown. “Something brought you back here.” She softly lets him known. “Your brother is still kind, you know?”

He scoffs. “He immediately fawned over her after everything she did.” Sherlock bitterly tells her, moving to the fireplace and lowers himself, looking into the fire. His brother easily accepts Jocelyn back into his life after two days of knowing she’s back. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn’t. It’s been a week as well, but time isn’t the problem with this situation. “I shouldn’t be back here. There’s no reason for me to be here, same with the previous encounters. I never gain anything.”

“You come to your mind palace to find something,” she reminds, standing behind him. “In your case, someone.”

Frown lines formed on his forehead, a scowl written on his face. “I’m not here to look for you. I’ve been forced to be here.” He shots back, looking over his shoulder and rose to his feet to look her in the eyes. “I don’t want to be here.”

Without blinking, Jocelyn puts her head on one side. “Then delete me.”

He falls silent, swallowing. There are no words to say to that, because he knows that he couldn’t. As much as he tries, as much as he denies it, everything about Jocelyn in his mind palace, every memory he has of her during those five months that happened eight years ago; he doesn’t want to forget them. Sherlock, defeated, sags his shoulders and exhales. He buries his face into his palms. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Jocelyn corrects and walks forward, hands reaching up to grab his, removing them from his face. “Oh, Sherlock,” she mutters. “I’m so sorry,”

Sherlock stifles a mocking laugh, but it comes out as something that was caught in his throat. “You’re not sorry. Why should you be?” He whispers to himself. “I knew you were poison the minute I saw you and I still indulged myself into that.” He looks down at their hands. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes widen and he meets hers. There is a big grin on his face. Jocelyn smiles happily, but there is a hint of sadness. The natural sadness that Sherlock has seen on her face for five months.

“Glad you got what you came for.” Jocelyn squeezes his hand and he blinks rapidly, the image of her fading away and is replaced by what he saw under the microscope. “Poison!”

He doesn’t even notice Mrs. Hudson walking in the door to take some trays from the batch of cookies earlier. “What are you going on about?” She asks with concern.

He slams his palms on the desk, finally figuring it out and startling the old woman in the process. He doesn’t have time to apologize, he’s too exhilarated over the fact that he knew it was poison. He had to go through a very awful sequence inside his mind palace to understand it all, but now he’s here. “Clostridium botulinum!” He looks to his left and sees Dr. Watson, still in his working clothes— _even though he’s quit his job_ —and only came home. “It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet.” Sherlock expands, and John only looks back at him with no clue. “Carl Powers,” Sherlock further reminds him.

John, astonished by the information, widens his eyes. “Oh, wait. Are you saying he was murdered?”

Sherlock got up and goes to where the shoelaces were hung. “Remember the shoelaces?” He asks and John hums in agreement. “The boy suffered from eczema, it’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication.” He gestures towards the shoelaces, feeling proud of himself that he figured it out all on his own. “Arrives in London two hours later, poison takes effect and paralyses the muscles, then he drowns.” He further analyzed.

“How come the autopsy didn’t pick that up?”

“It’s virtually undetectable. And nobody would have been looking for it.” Sherlock grins and leans down, typing into his laptop on his website to let the culprit know that he has solved it. “There are still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he’d put the cream on his feet. That’s why they had to go.” Sherlock finishes typing and straightens his back, waiting for a response.

“So how do we let the bomber know?”

“Get his attention. Stop the clock.” He checks his watch, seeing how he still has three hours left. Sherlock feels absolutely proud of himself.

“The killer kept the shoes all these years.”

“Yes,” Sherlock pauses to think. “Meaning…”

“He’s our bomber.” John concludes and the pink phone rings. Sherlock answers it and is relieved to hear the crying woman, asking them to come and get her. Sherlock calls the bomb squad from Scotland Yard and directed them to her, feeling very accomplished that he solved the culprit’s little puzzle.

***

“Oh, elegant.” Sherlock says to himself as he stands in front of the glass walls within Lestrade’s office, the next day after he solved the case of Carl Powers.

John glares before sighing. “Elegant?” There was a woman strapped into a car seat with enough explosives to destroy houses and his flatmate deems it elegant like some kind of game? John can’t believe a person could be so negligible towards a human life. Her life was on the line, for Christ’s sake!

“What was the point? Why would anyone do this?” Lestrade frustratingly encounters. John agrees with him, he can’t believe that a person can also be sick enough to make an innocent woman as hostage.

“No, I can’t be the only person in the world that gets bored.” Sherlock mutters before the pink phone beeps. He opens the message and it gives off four pips and a photo of an abandoned car.

The door opens and Sergeant Donovan enters, telling Sherlock that there is a phone call for him. Although she used an insulting nickname, she wasn’t important enough for Sherlock to care.

Lestrade clears his throat to catch John’s attention. “That woman in Baker Street, who was that? If you don’t mind me asking,” He curiously queries, leaning on his office chair as John faces him.

“Oh,” John coughs. “Err, she’s my sister’s friend. She came to stay at our flat for a few weeks.”

Greg raises his brows. “With Sherlock?”

“Yeah, with Sherlock,” he confirms with a forced grin.

He chuckles. “And how’s that turning about?”

John nods. “It’s good. Well, the two of them already knew each other eight years prior. They went to the same University.” He adds.

Greg makes an impressed noise. “Oh, well, she is very,” he trails off and John narrows his eyes in an amused way. “Decent?” He finishes with a questioning tone, making John let out a short laugh.

Sherlock accepts the phone and is immediately greeted by a similar situation, although this time, the hostage was a man. Whoever the caller was, he admits into knowing who Carl Powers is, and killing him. The hostage reveals that he is surrounded by people, and Sherlock knows that he’s in the middle of a busy street. The consulting detective’s blood runs cold upon the caller telling him that he only has eight hours to solve this next puzzle, since he solved the last one in nine hours.  _Is it still elegant?_  He hears her voice inside his head and he grimaces, following Lestrade outside to go to where the abandoned car is placed.

The pink phone rings while Sherlock is in the middle of an experiment. He picks it up and immediately recognizes the voice from earlier in Scotland Yard. He gives Sherlock a clue, saying that the name of the car company says it all.

“Why would you be giving me a clue?” Sherlock asks with suspicion.

“Why does anyone do anything?” The man says in between stifled sobs. “Because I’m bored.” He tells him, and Sherlock’s facial expression relaxes. “I have a surprise for you.” The man shakily says into the phone.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.  _A surprise?_  “Is this one of your games?”

“You’ll like this surprise, I can promise you that.” The stolen voice suppresses a sob from his throat. “We were made for each other, Sherlock.” He tells him.

He pauses. “Then talk to me in your own voice.”

“Patience,” he simply says before hanging up.

Sherlock blinks and positions the phone back down on the table. He looks down at the blood sample on the dish, lifting it to eye level and observes it, listening the the quiet sizzle of the two liquids mixing. A slow smile arrived on his face.  _Got you_.

The case is solved within an hour, with two hours to spare and Sherlock finds himself back in Baker Street. He lets the culprit know about it and the pink phone rings. The man on the other end tells both Watson and Holmes that they can come fetch him. Sherlock does what he did before and calls the bomb squad after asking where he is. Once that was over, Sherlock grins over at John. Dr. Watson scoffs with a small smile, a bit relieved that they saved another human today.

The next day, he finds himself accompanying John inside a café. John did ask Jocelyn to join them, but she declines politely, saying that she would prefer to stay home and watch television. Sherlock, however, believes that she just doesn’t want to be in his company. They’re only eating. Although this time, only John is eating breakfast. Dr. Watson didn’t force him to eat this time, knowing that he won’t win. But it’s a bit all right to him, since Sherlock ate last night. He didn’t eat much, but he still consumed food, which was good enough. One of these days, he might strap Sherlock down and force food down his throat. The thought makes him chuckle aloud, making the consulting detective glance at him questioningly. He doesn’t ask about it, though.

“Feeling better?”

John hums. “We’ve hardly stopped for a breath since this thing started.” John mutters, sipping his coffee. “Has it occurred to you—”

“Probably.”

He grimaces, continuing his question. “No, has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you?” He looks him in the eyes. “The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid’s shoes; it’s all meant for you.” John claims.

Oddly enough, Sherlock smiles as if it was a touching gesture. “Yes, I do.”

John shakes his head. “Is it him, then? Moriarty?” He asks for confirmation.

Sherlock looks behind John, making sure no one suspicious could be listening into their conversation. “Perhaps.” He purses his lips, just in time for the pink phone to give a beep, indicating a new message. Sherlock glances over and opens the message, listening to the three pips and looking at the photo that follows. A photo of a woman that Sherlock couldn’t recognize, but John could. He informs the detective that he’s lucky that the Doctor has been unemployed and watches far too much television with their landlady. John gets on his feet and proceeds to turn on the television screen inside the café. Sherlock watches the woman on the photo host her own show on the screen and soon after, the mobile pink phone rings.

Sherlock slides to answer and holds the pink phone to his ear. “Hello?”

The woman on the other end of the line sounds as if she’s gasping for air. Her voice has aged and it makes him frown. “This one… is a bit defective.” She pauses between the words. “Sorry, she’s blind.” Her voice is hauntingly slow that Sherlock has an impulse of impatience. He gives her time, and stays silent. “This is a funny one.” A pause. “My surprise for you can wait,” Another pause. “Until… the last puzzle.”

John goes back to his seat and watches Sherlock, a concerned expression on his face.

“I’ll give you,” she pauses. “Twelve hours.”

Sherlock eyes John for a second. “Why are you doing this?”

“I like,” she pauses to breathe. “To watch you,” she stops. “Dance,” she finishes and starts gasping, as if preventing herself from going through a heart attack. She hangs up and Sherlock is still processing her words, looking over at John who has a gaping expression. He puts down the phone and clenches his jaw, but he couldn’t help himself from feeling exhilarated from the thrill of the cases he’s been dealing with lately.

After visiting Connie Prince’s corpse at St. Barts, Sherlock concludes how something is wrong with her autopsy report. The cut on her hand was made later, but he still hasn’t figured out how the tetanus entered her body. He has John gather everything he has on Connie Prince, and left immediately to go back to Baker Street.

“There’s something else that we haven’t thought of.” Lestrade informs him as the consulting detective goes to leave the morgue.

“Is there?”

“Yes, why is he doing this, the bomber?” Greg asks him, marching towards Sherlock and making the other detective halt his actions. “If this woman’s death was suspicious, why point it up?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Good Samaritan.” He recalls the book he read when he was a child, not knowing why it’s still in stock inside is head.

“Who press-gangs suicide bombers?” He counters.

Sherlock purses his lips, nodding. “Bad Samaritan.”

Lestrade sighs, frustrated. “I’m serious, Sherlock.” He inhales. “Listen, I’m cutting you some slack here. I’m trusting you, but out there somewhere, some poor bastard’s covered in Semtex, and just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So tell me, what are we dealing with?” He asks, wanting to be prepared for the upcoming puzzles this person might give to Sherlock next.

A smirk slowly etches onto Sherlock’s face, amused. “Something new.”

Sherlock finds himself back in Baker Street hours later. Only three hours left until his time is up. Photos of Connie Prince, Carl Powers, and others were pinned to his wall. His murder board looked like a mess, in Lestrade’s opinion, but he figures that it might be well organized for Sherlock. The consulting detective is pacing back and forth, trying to piece together a connection between the people he’s investigated. He seems to be frustrated now, unable to detect a connection until the phone started to ring.

He answers and holds out the phone, putting it on speaker so Greg could listen as well. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” The voice of the old woman asks him. Sherlock knew that the woman is blind, that would mean she’s listening to him speak to her. Could be him, or maybe he has someone else read the messages to her. Either way, he knows that she’s not reading; she’s listening. “Joining the… dots.” She gasps. “Three hours. Boom… boom… boom.” She sobs and disconnects. Sherlock goes to face Lestrade, gritting his teeth as he turns back to his board, clasping his palms together and pressed the tips of his fingers against his chin, focusing on his board.

***

“Hey, Sherlock, how long?” John stops him from walking away after explaining the whole case to Lestrade. He couldn’t believe what he just heard Sherlock say. Disbelief, anger, it’s all John could feel.

“What?”

“How long have you known?” John repeats.

“Well, this one was quite simple, actually. Like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.” He briefly points at John and goes to striding past him, but John blocks the way.

“Yeah, but Sherlock, the hostage. The  _old_ woman, she’s been there all this time!” John sternly claims, realizing how Sherlock left her there to suffer when he already has solved the case.

Sherlock leans his head down low. “I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things.” He explains. “Don’t you see? We’re one up on him.” Sherlock delivers and finally goes past him to leave the office while John stands there with his jaw clenched.

Sherlock goes to typing into his laptop and when the finishes, the phone rings almost immediately. Lestrade and John were right behind him as he does, anticipating the phone call. He listens to the woman cry for help and asks the address so he can be able to direct the police to her. Then, she starts to describe the culprit and Sherlock could feel the rise of panic inside him. He pushes them down and remains calm and collected.

“No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him, nothing,” he insists.

“He sounded so soft,” she slowly says, until he hears a loud explosion and the line goes dead. Sherlock displayed as though his breath was caught in his throat. Eyes widening as he speaks into the phone to clarify if no one is on the end of the line anymore. Upon realizing that, he swallows and slowly. John shows his disappointment by sighing aloud, rubbing his forehead.

They leave afterwards to Baker Street. John doesn’t say a word to him and he somewhat understands why. His flatmate slams the door closed behind him as Sherlock is left alone inside the room, contemplating his actions. But the woman didn’t die because the time is up, the bomb went off because she started to describe the mastermind of it all. Would it be awful to shift the blame towards her? Should Sherlock shift the blame towards her? No, John wouldn’t appreciate that. He still thinks it’s Sherlock’s fault and he has every right to think so.

He hears footsteps behind him. From the pattern, he can tell that they belonged to Jocelyn. He looks over his shoulder to glance at her, only to direct his gaze back outside the window. “I heard what happened.” She mutters out, wrapping her arms around herself, frowning.

“Did you, now?” Sherlock quietly asks a rhetorical question whilst viewing the busy street of London.

“The detective told me, I managed to catch him on the way here.” She mumbles. “The situation could’ve been handled better—”

“You’re saying that it’s my fault.”

She sighs. “I’m not saying it’s your fault.”

“That’s what John thinks. That’s what you’re bound to think.” Sherlock slips his hands inside the pockets of his pants.

She frowns, knowing that he’s right. “You were doing what you thought was best.”

“I left an old woman strapped into explosives for twelve hours while I could have saved her at any given time.” He bluntly says. “Now she’s dead. It’ll be all over the news tomorrow morning.”

Jocelyn bites down her lip. “I can’t mask my disappointment, but you can definitely have done better. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Sherlock remains quiet as she walks to the window, facing him as she extends her arm. He looks down at her hand and notices a small box of that contains one cigarette, and glances at her face again. She raises her brows, urging him to take the last one. “It’s not low tar, promise.” She cracks a smile at him.

He hesitates for a second before taking one stick from the box, observing it while Jocelyn flickers her lighter on. Sherlock settles the cigarette between his lips and she lights it for him, and he lets her. Sherlock takes a drag and closes his eyes briefly, suddenly feeling relaxed. One thing he thanks human beings for inventing are cigarettes. Bless whoever invented them, Sherlock thinks to himself as he takes another long drag. Jocelyn just watches him for a moment, before she shifts her focus to the buses, cars and the people outside. They stood together in front of the window with Sherlock smoking her last cigarette and Jocelyn listening to the traffic. For the first time in a week, the silence between them was comfortable.

The next day, Sherlock stands corrected. The incident from last night is all over the news. Twelve people were killed, for every hour that Sherlock ignored the old woman. John watches the news with him, completely disappointed. The consulting detective admits that he lost the game, although he did solve the case. Sherlock tells him that the culprit killed her because she started to describe him. The two flatmates discussed how whoever the mastermind is, people come to him to have crimes arranged.

“So, why is he doing this, then?” John asks the bigger question. “Playing this game with you. Do you think he wants to be caught?”

Sherlock suppresses a smile, hands clasped together in a thinking manner. “I think he wants to be distracted.” He softly deduces.

John realizes what’s going on and gets up, laughing bitterly. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

Sherlock processes his words. “Sorry, what?”

“There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives.” He raises his voice angrily. “Just so I know, do you care about that at all?” He furrows his brows at him.

Sherlock has a blank expression on his face. “Would caring about them, help save them?”

“Nope.” John shakes his head.

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.” Sherlock sternly says.

“And you find that easy, do you?”

“Yes, very.” He answers immediately. “Is that news to you?”

It isn’t. Knowing Sherlock, he probably doesn’t care about anyone but himself. John is right from the start, he has no idea how a woman like Jocelyn could have ever managed to be with him. He can’t imagine the situation that must have occurred between them whilst Sherlock and she were both still teenagers. Even now, he can sense how Sherlock always tries his best to ignore emotions, John doesn’t know why. Emotions are what make humans as humans. Why would Sherlock purposely try to ignore such part of his instincts?

“No, no.” John answers with a bitter smile.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment. “I’ve disappointed you.”

“That’s good deduction, yeah.” John nods.

“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.” Sherlock retorts just before the pink phone beeps. He looks down and notices how it’s another puzzle. “Excellent.” He whispers.

He voices out everything he deduced from the photo and John only looks down. Sherlock realizes that John is angry with him, telling his flatmate that this caring action isn’t doing the case any good. That comment makes John give up and goes to help him by viewing the newspapers. Sherlock understands that his companion is angry with him, but it would be best if the two of them work together on these puzzles. From how Jocelyn treated him last night, he doesn’t quite understand. He believes that she’s somewhat disappointed in him as well, but not angry. Never angry. She understood that Sherlock thought he was doing what was best, even when his calculations were wrong.

Meanwhile, Jocelyn walks around London. She only has around two days until the conference and after that, she might go back to New York or find a new place in London if her relocation is approved. While walking down the pavement of the busy street in London, she accidentally bumps into someone and she immediately goes to apologize.

“Jocelyn!” She recognizes the man from St. Barts a few days ago, smiling down at her as if she didn’t just crash her body on him. “I didn’t think I’d bump into you today.”

“Literally,” she chuckles. “No work today?”

“Day off,” He gives her a shrug. “Where are you off to?” Jim asks.

Jocelyn notes how he’s wearing a cap and a thick jacket from the cold London weather. He’s also wearing earphones, one plugged into his left ear and the other just hanging down so he can still hear her speak, and he’s holding his phone. She wonders what kind of music he listens to.

She just shrugs, walking to the side so they wouldn’t block anyone’s way. “Nowhere really, just out to get some air in my lungs.” She says. “I’m so sorry for Sherlock’s behavior yesterday. He crossed the line.” She sympathetically tells him, but he waves him off.

“Oh, it’s fine. Molly and I never would have lasted.” Jim chuckles away. “I was on my way to a restaurant, do you want to come with?” He asks, eyes filled with hope.

There is something inside Jocelyn that she couldn’t understand. Her mind is telling her to decline and just go home to have some cookies with Mrs. Hudson. She doesn’t know why, Jim is quite nice.

She just shakes her head politely. “Oh, it’s fine. I should go home for some lunch.”

“Have lunch with me,” he insists. “Come on, you said you wanted to fill your lungs with some fresh air.” He offers, glancing down at his phone for a second. “It’s only down the street.”

She hesitates, but accepts. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her coat, already feeling the London breeze seep through it. Jocelyn nods and it makes him smile, gesturing to the pavement as if to say ‘ladies first’ and the gesture makes her chuckle, walking ahead with him by her side.


	8. The Game

Sherlock just finished deducing everything about the dead man lying down on the sand. He just impressed both John and Lestrade, feeling very proud of himself. John is somewhat tolerating him now, his anger is slowly reducing from how Sherlock is understanding. They were now on the way to Waterloo Bridge where Sherlock had to stop to invest on his homeless network. Then, they go to the gallery together in the same cab.

“So,” John starts, catching Sherlock’s attention while the detective is scanning through his phone.

“What?” He absentmindedly says.

John looks out of the window, seeing road signs that they passed. “The conference is in two days.” He tells Sherlock.

He stops typing for a second, and continues as if it doesn’t matter to me. “What of it?”

“Oh, nothing.” He shakes his head. “It’s just that after the conference, Jocelyn goes home to New York.”

“She’s relocating here. She only needs to find her own place.” Sherlock waves off.

“Yeah, but… she would still need to sort out some files back at her old workplace before she moves here. That would take almost a month, wouldn’t it?”

His words make the other man purse his lips, lifting his gaze from his phone to his companion. Just in time, the cab stops at the gallery and Sherlock climbs out. He stops John from following and tells him that he needs the Doctor to gather data about the gallery attendant. Sherlock walks on his own, with john travelling to another part of London.

Jocelyn leaves in two days and Sherlock feels somewhat agitated about it. _Why?_ He should feel ecstatic upon her leave, isn’t that what he always wanted? For her to be gone? Although, whenever he thinks of the night before, he realized how he found comfort into speaking with her. He scrunches his nose at the thought, it’s not possible for him to have felt something. It’s just not. She only offered him a cigarette and that was it. Why would he put such importance to one night?

After he broke into the gallery and spoke to Miss Wenceslas, he felt ridiculous wearing that security guard outfit. He goes back to Baker Street to tend to his board, looking for any sort of connection between the victims of each puzzle. He has to figure out where Moriarty is going with this if he’s going to catch him. He needs to understand how the mastermind thinks and what he’d do next. What surprise is he talking about? Would it be another puzzle? The thought excites him, he’s never encountered something like this before. Moriarty once said that they were made for each other, and Sherlock couldn’t help but think that it’s true.

The flat is empty, he realizes this when he goes to the kitchen and sees the mess that he created. If Jocelyn were home, she would have kept things neat out of habit. He goes downstairs and outside, seeing how it’s dark out already. Looking to his left, he recognizes one of his homeless network, and right at that moment, John’s cab stops and he climbs out. John informs him of everything he gathered from the gallery attendant as he takes what he needed from the homeless girl, an address. Sherlock and John move on to another place, to meet the Golem.

***

It didn’t go exactly as plan, Sherlock admits. Although, at least they left the place alive. Now, Sherlock and John came to the gallery, standing in front of the painting that Sherlock claims as a fake. The woman insists that it isn’t by telling them all that the painting has been subjected into every test known to science. The pink phone rings and he answers almost immediately.

Sherlock holds the phone out, putting it on loudspeaker. “The painting is a fake.” He exclaims aggressively. “It’s a fake, that’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.” He expands and there was no answer at the end of the line. The groups of people stare at the phone intently, wondering about the caller’s silence. Sherlock’s eyes twitch in impatience. “Oh, come on, proving it is just a detail. The painting is a fake. I’ve solved it, I’ve figured it out.” Sherlock grimaces. “It’s a fake, that’s the answer! That’s why they were killed.” He keeps insisting but is greeted by the same silence.

John glances at him, seeing how this is frustrating Sherlock. He observes how the consulting detective inhales and tries to collect himself. “Okay, I’ll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?” Sherlock sighs, somewhat defeated.

Then, something unexpected happened. The voice of a young boy starts to count down and all the people in the room were panicking, including Sherlock. John is evening out his breath and Lestrade wipes the sweat off his forehead. John rapidly blinks,  _come on, Sherlock_.

Sherlock scans the painting again, looking over the details he might have missed.  Then it hit him, eyes widening and mouth gaping.  _Christ’s sake, Sherlock, just spit it out!_  He hears her voice in her head, but he is too busy flaunting the fact that he figured it out, even ignoring the way Lestrade yells at him. He takes the pink phone from John and tells the boy about the Van Buren Supernova. Then, he stops counting and asks for help, to which results a breath of relief from each adult in the room. He explains the Van Buren Supernova to the Doctor and Detective Inspector, to make them understand. John feels relieved as he follows Sherlock and Lestrade back to Scotland Yard, to bring Miss Wenceslas into questioning.  She claims to have no involvement with any of the past cases that Sherlock and John have encountered. Now, she’s telling them about how she found a man in Argentina who could paint quite well and fool anyone, but she didn’t know how to convince everyone that the painting is real.

“It was just an idea,” she says. “A spark in which  _he_  blew into a flame.”

Sherlock’s attention is grabbed. “Who?”

She stays silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” she answers finally, to which Lestrade scoffs at. “It’s true!” She insists. “It took a long time but I was soon put in touch with people.” She nods. “His people.” Miss Wenceslas quietly adds. “There was never any real contact. Just messages, whispers,”

Sherlock slowly sits upright, anticipating this. He knows where this was leading up to and only needs one more nudge to completely confirm it. “And did those whispers have a name?” He presses, voice low and intimidating.

She hesitates, looking back at the Inspector and to the ground. It was as if the name is a curse to never be spoken aloud. However, she finally gives in, looking Sherlock in the eye. “Moriarty.”

His suspicions were confirmed as he leans back on his seat, exhilarated. A slow grin finds his lips and he hides it behind his praying hands. After the questioning, John and Sherlock proceed home. They were both quite tired, barely had any break ever since this whole thing started. 

Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door and slips inside. “Have you two had any dinner yet?”

“Not yet, we might go out and have some. You’re welcome to join us.” John tells her, resulting a grimace to say no. John gets on his feet to have a glass of water. “Where’s Jocelyn?”

“Haven’t seen her this morning, but she did tell me she’s having a walk.” She assures him.

John nods. “Yeah, she keeps having her walks. It’s very cold out, as well.”

Sherlock listens to their conversation while typing into his laptop, downloading useful information that he might make use of. His mind easily goes back to Jocelyn and makes him scrunch his nose, shaking his head to get his mind off her. He hears a phone beep and he goes to reach for the pink phone, but he sees that there are no messages whatsoever. John gulps down a glass of water as Sherlock reaches for his own phone and opens a new message.

“Mycroft?” John asks, knowing that his brother’s patience is wearing thin.

Sherlock frowns, looking at the phone number. “It’s Jocelyn.” He never did save her phone number, but the text has her name on it. He reads the text with his eyes.  _What?_

John puts down the glass of water and turns to him. “What did she say?”

Sherlock passes his phone to John and forms a line with his mouth. John takes the phone and holds it out in front of him. “Met up with a friend and staying the night, don’t wait up.” He mutters. “With an ‘x’ at the end.” He grins a bit and makes Sherlock narrow his eyes. “Are you going to reply?” He asks the consulting detective, who only ignores him with a glare on his face. “What? I’m not saying anything.” He defensively says.

“You’re thinking it.” He mutters, taking back his phone and turning it off.

“You do know what an ‘x’ at the end of a text means, don’t you?” John asks incredulously. Sherlock’s silence confirms his suspicion and made the Doctor sigh. “It’s a kiss, Sherlock.”

The detective cringes. “A…  _kiss._ ” He recalls the same deduction he made during his and John’s early days of knowing one another.

John gives him a shrug. “I mean, yeah. Thought you already knew that.” He says, thinking about how his phone contained a few kisses from Clara to his sister, Harry.

“How would the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet used for texting be condemned into a physical act that you humans coincide naturally for sentimental reasons?” He asks in confusion.

John lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes briefly. Sherlock and his fancy way of saying, _‘how would an x be equivalent to a kiss?’_ John only assumes that his flatmate likes to just spit out words from his mouth. “I don’t know, but that’s normally what it would mean in texts.” Sherlock tries to process it, dissecting the information behind the letter ‘x’.

John finds it amusing how Sherlock focuses on a single letter more than he ever had in his previous cases, it’s very odd. There’s something about the text that makes Sherlock a bit suspicious, surely Jocelyn knows what an ‘x’ would mean, correct? She would never add it there.

“Shut up.”

“What?” John asks, puzzled.

“You were thinking.”

“I’m not thinking about anything.” John grins and goes to the door. “Hey, you promised to eat after this case.” He frowns upon seeing Sherlock not making any move to leave his chair even when John is already out of the door.

“I made no such promise.” He scrunches his nose.

“Sherlock.”

He groans, getting on his feet and following him outside to a restaurant. While the two had dinner, Sherlock keeps looking down at his phone. He has no idea why he keeps reading the text over and over again. John chews his food and swallows it down, noticing how his friend hasn’t touched his plate at all. “What is it?”

He snaps out of his daze, eyes flickering to his flatmate and seeing the concern on his face. Sherlock shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Nothing to worry about.” He quietly assures him, taking his fork and hesitates, sinking the points of the fork into the celery and feeds himself with it.

He can’t eat anymore than half his plate, he needs to be prepared for the next case. He knows that this isn’t over yet, and something big is coming. Whoever is behind this already mentioned that he has a surprise for him, and it excites him. Sherlock always liked the odd cases; it’s what the challenges really begin. He has never been not bored in a while, so this has been great so far. 

“So, who do you think it is?”

Sherlock turns his eye upon John, who sits in front of him. “Who?”

“The friend that Jocelyn met up with?” John asks before having another spoonful of buttered chicken.

Sherlock hasn’t really thought about it, making him lean back on his seat. “What makes you think I would know?”

Dr. Watson glances at him. “Well, you  _did_  go to University with her, but who am I to ask you that?” He mockingly remarks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I never did pay attention to anyone during my University days, unless of course I’m deducing something about them.” He admits. “Not even her.”  _Lie._  Shut up, Sherlock thinks to himself as he reaches for the glass of water, quenching his thirst.

John isn’t surprised by his answer. Why should he be? He didn’t exactly know what kind of person Sherlock was eight years ago. When they finish dinner and paid, they walk home and John goes straight to bed after taking a quick shower. Sherlock settles himself by the couch, taking his phone out and making sure the latest text he received is real. He hears the door close form downstairs and immediately knows that he’s the only one awake in the building. He tries to figure out who the friend may be. Is the person from University? A childhood friend? On the other hand, just someone Sherlock doesn’t know? Either way, he probably wouldn’t know them. He has either never met them or just completely erased them out of his head after deciding that they won’t be important in the future. He’s still wearing his button-up and black dress pants, and he listens to the ticking of the clock while pacing around the room. He needs to stop; he desperately needs his mind to stop thinking. To just stop functioning for a while But, does he really? He needs his mind, it’s his most prized possession. He finds himself plopped down on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He takes his box of nicotine patches and applies them to his arm, three to be exact. It’s not enough, but it’s doing fine. He’s doing fine.

The next day, Sherlock and John proceed with the case that Mycroft assigned them to since the beginning. Sherlock admits to John that he would never give up on a case like this just to spite his big brother. Jocelyn never came home last night, just as she told him. The text is still safely inside his phone, he never bothered to respond. Moriarty has broken is pattern, he hasn’t phoned since the countdown with the little boy. It’s rather frustrating for Sherlock, he needs the new puzzle now.

They break into Joe Harrison’s flat, the brother of Andrew West’s fiancée. They both confronted him into killing Andrew West and stealing the memory stick, and retrieved it from him. Upon leaving the flat, the pink phone beeps and Sherlock immediately reaches for it. He opens the message and five pips were heard. The sound is almost ear piercing, and he meets eyes with John. Sherlock purses his lips as he opens the next message, it is a picture of a restaurant’s sign. One of the biggest restaurants in the city.

“What is that?” John takes the phone to view. “Is that a restaurant?”

Sherlock looks around in the dark, looking for a place to call a cab. “It is, come on.” He grins to himself, wondering what he has in store for Sherlock this time. John frowns when he catches sight of Sherlock’s amused face. It’s awful to see how Sherlock still manages to find amusement in situations like these. They take half an hour to arrive to the restaurant, and Sherlock leaves the cab almost abruptly, leaving John to pay the fare—which he does with aggression. Sherlock ought to pay for their rides next time they get on a cab. As they stand in front of the restaurant, the pink phone rings in John’s pocket. He reaches for it and answers. Sherlock takes the phone from him and holds it to his ear. “Hello?”

“H… hello, Sherlock, my dear.” A woman’s voice addresses him in between sobs. “You’ve done so well with the past cases,” Her voice is shaky. “Now, it’s time for your surprise.” She gasps out, voice breaking from sobbing earlier before the phone call. “Call it as your reward.” Sherlock listens to the woman sob.

Dr. Watson glances up at the restaurant, seeing how it’s packed with many people. Sherlock looks at John as he speaks to the woman. “My reward is having dinner at a restaurant? Very anti-climactic, so to speak.” He confesses.

“It’s not the food, silly.” She sniffles. “Go to the backdoor. There will be arrows for you. Follow it like the good little detective you are.” The line disconnects and Sherlock blinks a couple times, slipping the pink phone into his pocket.

“What did they say?” John asks, feeling chilly from the weather.

Sherlock looks around, seeing many people walk past them in the middle of the pavement. “We might have to break inside.” He makes a move to walk to the other side of the restaurant, but John stops him.

“Wait, shouldn’t we call the police? They’ve been involved in this from the very first case.” John tells him.

Sherlock knots his brows together. “While we’re about to break in?”

“Why do we need to break in?” John asks, confused.

The consulting detective smirks. “It’s what he wants. Come along, John.” He paces towards the back of the restaurant. John sighs and follows after him. Sherlock notices how the backdoor is already open. The back of the restaurant leads to the kitchen, Sherlock sees an arrow pointing to a path leading to the basement. Sherlock makes sure that no one catches them as he follows the direction, John walking behind him.”What’s going on, Sherlock?” John whispers as he follows him to the basement. Sherlock is greeted by a small room, filled with ingredients and whatnot. John switches the lights on, closing the door behind them. “Sherlock,”

The consulting detective ignores him, frowning as he looks around the room. He catches sight of something at the end of the room, walking towards it and realizes that it’s a walk-in freezer, seeing the temperature. He immediately feels suspicious since the standard temperature for walk-in freezers is negative ten degrees. In this one, the temperature is set to negative twenty. He glances to the left and sees a television stationed on top of a chair, tilting his head to the side. Sherlock carefully walks towards it and crouches down to observe whatever he could gather. The wire is plugged in and so he reaches over to turn it on. The screen flashes on and his face relaxes, eyes widening when he sees the figure of Jocelyn’s body standing at the corner of a room. Sherlock’s lips part, rising on his feet again as he stares at the television screen in shock. The image is blurry, but he can tell it’s her from the brown hair and distinguishable color of her dress. It’s what she was wearing yesterday.

John walks next to him and notices the look on his face, glancing down at the television. His mouth opens, breath catching in his throat. “Where… where is that?” He asks Sherlock, not taking his eyes off the screen, face deliberately filled with shock.

It takes a moment for Sherlock to answer, swallowing. “There are shelves at the corner of the frame. Possibly…” He pauses and glances at the door of the walk-in freezer.

Dr. Watson follows his gaze and his hands fly to the sides of his face _. “Oh, God,”_  he mumbles to himself.

Sherlock couldn’t help the impulse of immediately going to the freezer and pushing the handle to open it. He exerts all his force into pushing the door handle to turn, and John joins in. He groans in the process of opening it, but the door didn’t budge. John realizes that it won’t work, so he lets go and grits his teeth. Although, Sherlock keeps pushing with short groans. “Sherlock, this isn’t going to take us anywhere!” John urges him to stop, sensing his panic rising.

Sherlock clenches his teeth and his nose flare with frustration. “Look at the discoloration on her skin, she’s been here since last night. Or longer.” He points at the screen, voice low. “Call the police, now!” His voice booms through the basement. John goes to reach for his phone and almost immediately, the pink phone rings.

Sherlock takes the phone out and presses answer, hitting loudspeaker. “What’s the puzzle behind this?” He asks, trying to sound calm and collected, but his chest is pumping fast with blood and panic. John is pacing around the room, glancing at the television screen from time to time, seeing how the young woman wraps her arms around herself.

“There’s no puzzle this time, Sherlock.” The woman sniffles and says through sobs. John widens his eyes at Sherlock, sheer panic coursing through his body. “Do you like your reward?” She sobs. “Would have… wrapped her myself, but you know.”  _His_  words through her voice were mocking him.

Sherlock fixes his gaze towards the young woman on the screen. He watches her wrap her arms around herself, a mist forming in front of her mouth every time she exhaled. “Hiding behind another voice, I presume?”

“Oh, come now, Sherlock. We both like having the dramatic flare.” She tells him. “Now, onto the rules. First rule, no police. If you call any police officer, I will know about it and I will set her on fire.” Her voice is shaky and the words make John slowly turn his phone off and slip them back inside his pocket. “Second rule, no running out of the restaurant. You wouldn’t want to leave her alone. Trust me, you won’t.” She robotically says in between cries, making Sherlock’s face harden. “Those are all the rules, g-goodbye.”

“No, no! How do we solve this puzzle?” Sherlock yells into the phone, making John flinch a centimeter, observing how horror fills Sherlock’s face.

The voice speaking through the phone silences, but Sherlock can still make out the slow breathing noise. “The game begins… when she does it.” She sniffles.

“Does what?” Sherlock presses, eyes moving from side to side in an anxious manner.

“When she falls, Sherlock.” Simply put and the line goes dead.

Sherlock slowly descends the phone into his coat and casts a glance at his companion, who shifts his gaze from Sherlock’s face to the television screen. “What did he mean by that? Falling?” He asks to clarify.

“He means literal falling.” Sherlock trails off, staring into the space in front of him, gathering his courage to watch the television. “When she’s cold enough to fall on the floor.” He expands.

“Jesus,” John whispers. “We can’t wait that long, Sherlock. Look at the temperature! It’s at negative twenty! If she stays there for the next fifteen minutes, she’s going to collapse from either lack of oxygen or hypothermia,” He makes known, but Sherlock has already thought of that the moment he turned the television on. “She can’t have been in there since last night. If the freezer has been at that degree, we would be looking at her corpse right now.” John bluntly says, voice airy and concerned. His words make Sherlock look at him with alarm. He knew that already but hearing it from John is very off putting. “Christ, we were running around solving cases while she sits here slowly freezing herself to death. How did she even end up here?”

“Someone walks in here to moderate the temperature according to her ability, keeping her alive.” Sherlock looks around the room, there has to be something,  _anything._ “We shouldn’t ask how she ended up here. Not yet. We need to figure out how to get her out, or as you said, she’ll freeze.”  _Heart attack, hypothermia, lack of oxygen, frostbite_. Sherlock crosses out heart attack since Jocelyn lives a healthy life except for the smoking. That leaves him with three possibilities. The two of them can’t leave to take any sort of contraption or machine to destroy the walk-in freezer, and they certainly can’t phone a friend. Not even Mycroft, who would’ve been very helpful in this situation. No, Sherlock is not going to risk her life even further than it already is.  _Come on, think_. He tightly closes his eyes and transports himself to his mind palace.

He is greeted by Molly Hooper and Mycroft, standing next to a corpse covered with a sheet. Sherlock goes to uncover it and gasps upon seeing the pale face of the woman he—

“No, Sherlock, focus,” Molly is suddenly up on his face, gripping his head in between her tiny hands. “She is going to die if you don’t focus right now. Look for clues,  _any clues_. What have you got?”

“Footprint, right beneath the staircase on the way down to the basement.” He turns and crouches down, viewing the print on the floor with his magnified sight. “Whoever kept her inside must have shifted the temperature so she could survive the night and the rest of the day.” He says. “The shoe print, from the way it’s leveled, must be from a man’s shoe.”

“Very good, what else?” Molly encourages him, whilst Mycroft stands behind her with his arms crossed disapprovingly.

“The angle of the way the shoes pressed on the floor, he is careful with his steps. This means he most likely owns the place, or has been let access. A break-in would be hurried, but this man is quite the opposite.” Sherlock walks across the room, gesturing to the television. “The TV is angled slightly to the right and there are indented marks right here,” he points to a spot on the floor. “Possibly from a chair. Whoever is behind this, watched her for quite some time.”

“Oh, never mind the obvious things, brother mine,” Mycroft steps forward, tilting his chin up high. “Dr. Watson would be able to identify all that.”

“I doubt it.”

“No, you don’t. I’m you, and you think that Watson can figure all of that out,” Mycroft acknowledges how Sherlock sees John. “Tell us something John wouldn’t know.” He urges.

Sherlock stares back at him, realizing what he means. “I know Jocelyn.” He quietly admits. “Better than he does.”

“And better than he ever will,” Mycroft offers him a grin. “And what’s one distinguishable characteristic that you admire in Jocelyn?”

 _Admire?_  Sherlock stammers for a second, but he understands where he’s going with this. Realization dawns over at him, face relaxing as he blinks slowly. “She fights, until to her greatest extent.” He says to himself.

“Which means?” His Mycroft consciousness adds.

“She must have known who abducted her.” Sherlock claims, looking at Mycroft with wide eyes. “Jocelyn always walks through busy streets. She’s careful and collected, she would never go to a place she doesn’t know, unless she has someone with her.” Sherlock points and turns back around, pacing inside his palace. He recalls the time where she and John walked to a private property once and almost was arrested. Sherlock never got the whole story, but he knew that she only did that because John was with her. She never would have dared to go anywhere alone. “Moriarty?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft nods. “Yet, it’s also possible that he hired someone else to kidnap her for him. We might never know. There are no files under the name Moriarty anywhere, you’ve searched every single site, even the government’s secret files and found nothing.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Moriarty is careful. He would never leave a shoeprint or an indent on the floor just because he was clumsy. No, he wants me to know that someone’s been here. Or rather,  _he’s_  been here. Jocelyn knows who Moriarty is, and possibly has met him before.” He concludes and his eyes open to John tugging on his coat sleeve in anxiety. John points to the television screen and whispers for him to look, making the consulting detective force his eyes to watch as the young woman finally falls on her knees and fall on the ground, her body shaking. Sherlock stares in shock.

The pink phone starts to ring and Sherlock grabs it from his coat and answers it, putting it on loudspeaker. “Dr. W-Watson.” The voice of the woman keeps crying into the phone, making Sherlock breathe heavily. “There’s a microphone under the top of the television screen. P-please speak into it.” She tells John and he glances at Sherlock, who only nods to assure him.

John nears the television and leans in a bit. “Uh, hello?”

“John?” The voice of Jocelyn croaks out, making the two men stand in alert. “John? Oh, th-thank, God.” Her voice is shaking from the cold. “W-where… w-where are, y-you?”

“We’re right outside, Jocelyn. We’re figuring out how to get you out.” John assures her, concerned over how her body is shaking.

“W-we?”

“Sherlock is here, he’s doing his best to get you out!” John keeps reassuring her, wanting to keep her talking to make sure she’s still alive.

“Sherlock,” the voice from the pink phone calls him, almost singing in a mocking way. “Here’s how the g-game works,” the woman sniffles. “For every secret you will tell, the door handle will turn once.”

Sherlock scoffs. “I do not have any secrets to tell.” He speaks into the phone, gripping it so hard that his knuckles turn white.

“E-exactly. Nothing you would tell. Giving you a chance now. No time limit, th-this time.” The line goes dead.

“No time limit?” John mutters to Sherlock.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Our time limit is her life.” Sherlock swallows. “My time limit.”

John watches Jocelyn through the television screen. “Well?” He quickly asks Sherlock.

“Well what?” There is panic in his eyes, no matter how he tries to hide it.

“A secret, Sherlock. For God’s sakes, just get on with the game!” He angrily commands him. “She is dying, and another woman is also strapped into explosives and you’re worried about the secrets you will reveal?” He has a spiteful look on his face. “Does she mean anything at all to you?”

“Of course she means something to me, John!” He snaps, unaware of what he just said.

“Isn’t this what you were being excited about?  _Something new?_  This is what you were asking for, right?” John challenges. “Everything you’ll say will stay between us. She won’t hear anything, Sherlock.”

“What makes you think I care about what she thinks?” Sherlock’s nose flares up in frustration, looking back at television screen. From the way he watches her small body shake, and the whisper in the back of his head telling him that she might suffer hypothermia even if they get her out. He gives in, even when he believes that this whole situation is a sick game that Moriarty created for him.  _A secret?_  “I solve cases not to just get high, but to try to fit into society because I believe I have no place in it and solving cases is the only thing I know that I’m good at.” Sherlock declares and John watches him with a frown. Suddenly, the door handle of the freezer turns just the slightest and he gapes. “I don’t have many secrets!” He groans and keeps looking over at the television screen.

“Keep going, it’s fine.” John keeps thinking of his words. He understands how this situation is making both Jocelyn and Sherlock suffer greatly in different ways.

Sherlock briefly closes his eyes and thinks of a secret, digging deep into his mind palace for anything. “As opposed to popular belief, I dislike my mind and how it works sometimes.” He makes known, and the door handle turns again. He glances over to John. “On the day I met you, I told you I was looking for a flat share, but that was a lie. I can afford the flat, but felt… lacking in the company sense.” He looks away, embarrassed. Mrs. Hudson urged him to look for a flatmate as a joke and Sherlock was completely opposed to the idea, but when John Watson was introduced to him by a mutual friend, he made it his goal to at least have one friend in his life. Again, the door handle turns again.

John offers him a small smile, but turns back to Jocelyn. “Jocelyn, talk to me.”

“A-are you almost,” she hiccups. “The door—”

“We’re almost through it, just keep talking to me.” John says, but when he notices that her eyes are slowly drooping, he tenses up. “No, Jocelyn. No! Keep your eyes open! Talk to me,” he pleads before turning to Sherlock. “Speed it up!”

Sherlock becomes agitated. “Uh, um,” he shuts his eyes, grimacing, thinking of any secret.  _Can he lie?_  No, he won’t take that chance. It’s her life at stake. However, how would Moriarty know if he’s lying? “I…” Sherlock hesitates. “I have a strong feeling of loathing towards,” he exhales, hating how he’s saying it aloud. “—towards Jocelyn Fray for what she did to me eight years ago.”

From that, the door handle doesn’t turn. Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. “That’s a secret,” he claims.

The phone rings and he goes to answer it. “H-how do you define a secret?” She gulps. “S-something no one else knows but you.”

Sherlock’s eye twitches. How would he know? It’s not as if he can read Sherlock’s mind and pick out all the secrets inside. “How many secrets do you need?”

“Just five, Sh-Sherlock. Five and your lady friend can go.”

Dr. Watson keeps speaking to Jocelyn to keep her from falling asleep. “Tell me a story while we’re at it, okay? We’re almost there.”

Jocelyn shivers. “Wh-what story?”

“Anything. How about your life in New York? We can start with that.” John quickly answers.

Her laugh is hoarse and immediately cut off by a cough. “Y-you don’t care about that. You just want to keep me from falling asleep. I-I’ll die that way.” She shivers again, body shaking from the cold.

“Can you—”

“Th-there’s nothing in here. I-I already checked and there’s nothing. Just frozen meat.” She tells John, making the doctor glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitates. Only three more secrets. Does he have that much? No, he doesn’t, or so he thinks he doesn’t. He locks eyes with John and clenches his teeth. “As much as I like to not show it, I still try my best to impress my older brother. His approval is of importance to me.” Sherlock admits and the door handle turns. “I… do go through a phase of remorse whenever I fail those who are closest to me,” he looks at John with a frown, remembering how he reacted when Sherlock let that old woman die. The door handle twists as John sternly nods at him, encouraging him to keep going.  _One more secret_.

His thoughts were cut off by Jocelyn’s soft and shaky sobs coming from the television. John panics, seeing symptoms of mild hypothermia all over her body. “Sherlock!” He forces out of his lungs. Any type of water near her eyes might result into her being even colder.

He shakes his head. “I don’t have any secrets left!” He yells back to John.

“Think! There has to be another one!” He cries, watching Jocelyn through the monitor to make sure she’s still alive.

Sherlock groans and leans down, hands gripping his temples as he goes through his mind palace for any secret.

“What about me?” He hears her voice and Sherlock opens his eyes, only to be greeted by his Jocelyn consciousness. “You can tell them about me,” she softly says. “I’m the only secret left.”

“No,” He disagrees, turning around to grimace and yell into the ground. To John, Sherlock would appear to be just thinking. But in Sherlock’s mind palace, he’s having a conflict with his head and emotions. “I can’t.”

“Why not? You’ll be saving my life!” Jocelyn interjects, looking at him as if he was being irrational. “What, you’re just going to refuse to admit that I exist in your head because you’re ashamed? Only John would know about it, it’s not a big deal—”

“No, there has to be another secret hidden away somewhere.” He mutters, looking around the flat for anything. In the Musgrave Hall flat, all the things that end up here are the things that Sherlock lock away. Some to forget, but some are just secrets.

“I’m the only one left, Sherlock. Do you really think Moriarty would care if you’re a virgin or not?” She teases. “He only wants the good secrets, the ones you’ve admitted so far.”

“Then why didn’t the door handle turn when I admitted that I loathe every single bit of cell that belongs to you?” He asks.

“What did Moriarty say? Secrets are things that no one else knows, except you.” She walks toward him, slowly, agonizingly. “I already knew that.”

He swallows, looking down at the ground. “How would Moriarty know anything about you?”

“Because he knows how your mind works, but he was wrong about something.”

“About what?”

“How you two were made for each other.” She smiles and just like that, her image vanishes. Sherlock opens his eyes and it’s only been a second that has passed.

He straightens his back and goes in front of the door to the walk-in freezer. He hesitates, glancing over at the television screen before he briefly closes his eyes. “John you have to listen. It only works if you listen to everything I admit.” Sherlock lets him know, not taking his glance off the door handle.

John frowns and gives him all of his attention. “Sherlock, hurry.”

He clenches his jaw and inhales. “I took advantage of how my mind works and created different consciousness in the shapes of different people in my life. Jocelyn is one of the most significant figures inside my mind palace, which I’ve chosen to lock away. But failed.” He admits and the door handle turns again, before clicking and opening, a mist of cold air came with it, oozing out of the door. Sherlock doesn’t even have time to look at John’s reaction, he only widens his eyes at John for a second before he sprints inside and looked for Jocelyn. She is in the farthest corner, and the man surrounds her.

“Keep the door open!” Sherlock stops John from following him, touching her cold skin and feeling his own crawl. She feels as though she’s dead, from how cold her flesh is. However, her open eyes and shaky body told otherwise. Sherlock hooks his arm under the crook of her knees, the other arm around her shoulders as he lifts her up and launches across the walk-in freezer. Sherlock sighs in relief, settling her on the ground to check if she’s still conscious. “Jocelyn? Can you hear me?” He kneels down beside her and John closes the walk-in freezer. The pink phone rings and Sherlock almost couldn’t be bothered to pick it up, but remembers that there’s another woman’s life on the line, so he reaches for it, tossing the phone to John since he has to tend to the woman on the ground in front of him.

John answers the call and almost immediately, the other woman cries for help, and it indicated how the game was over.

She looks as though she’s about to lose consciousness, and the two men both take off their coats to wrap them around her. Jocelyn is still shivering, her whole face pale and damp from the cold. “Sh-Sherl…” She barely finishes saying his name before her teeth continues to chatter.

“That’s it, keep talking.” He nods at her before looking towards John. “The game is over, call an ambulance and then the police. In that order!” His voice is stern, but calm. John nods and takes his phone out to make the call as Sherlock looks down at Jocelyn. “It’s okay, you’re safe.” He couldn’t help but graze the tips of his fingers against her cold cheek.

“P-please, please,” she whispers, trying her best to sit up and weakly opens her arms. Sherlock nods, understanding the request immediately. Body heat is most likely required now. He wraps his arms around her, pulling the woman to his chest to warm her up. She closes her eyes and leans against him, her body shutting down. “Th-thank you.”

Sherlock frowns, realizing how all of this is his fault and she shouldn’t express her gratitude towards him at all. John watches the scene in front of him, wondering what Sherlock meant with his last secret. Before they even knew it, Sherlock finds himself standing by Jocelyn’s body on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. The sirens across the streets were loud, but Sherlock could only focus on Jocelyn for now. He doesn’t even realize holding her cold hand as she lay there, filling her lungs back with oxygen. John is speaking to Lestrade since Sherlock refuses to leave her side now, the two men were discussing the other woman that was saved by the bomb squad from the other side of London. She was under a bridge as well, scared to death. But she was now safe in the hands of the police.

“What exactly happened?” Lestrade asks John, glancing at the consulting detective from a distance. The stretcher that Jocelyn is being situated inside the ambulance, to be taken to the hospital. She’s still wearing both their coats as she is taken away.

“Moriarty, he had Jocelyn kidnapped and put her in a bloody freezer.” John shakes his head.

Lestrade is puzzled. “None of  the people Sherlock knew have been involved in any of the cases so far.”

“This wasn’t a case.” John disagrees. “It was a sick game and made Sherlock a puppet.” He decides not to go into full detail.

“How so?”

“Well, he used Jocelyn, specifically.” John watches as the ambulance drives away, leaving Sherlock behind. He notices how Sherlock looks on before turning on his heels to make his way towards John.

“Why her, then?”

John gives Greg a look, sighing. “Sherlock and Jocelyn had history, together.” He hints, and slowly, Lestrade understands. He nods with his mouth open and brows knotted together. He never thought he’d met someone that has been involved with Sherlock Holmes. He’s clearly impressed as well.

Sherlock plants himself in front of John. “We have to follow the ambulance.” He simply tells John and walks to the other street to find a cab.

“No, hang on, you haven’t answered all my questions yet!” Lestrade stops them, but Sherlock keeps walking.

“Tomorrow.”

“Sherlock!”

He sighs and turns to Greg. “I will answer any question you have, but I will do it tomorrow.” He assures him with an annoyed expression as he proceeds to walk. John gives Lestrade an apologetic look as he goes to follow after his friend.

They both go to the hospital and ask for her room number, then they’re immediately directed to the room she was treated in. They were not allowed inside yet, saying that she’s stable and sleeping. Sherlock observes her through the glass, a blank expression on his face. John stands next to him, frowning.

“Twelve days.” Sherlock mutters, looking over at John. “That’s how long it took for her life to be in danger while living with me. Twelve days.” He shifts his gaze back to her sleeping body. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming. For Moriarty to use her against me.” He bitterly spits.

“How did he do it then? How did she end up in that freezer?”

Sherlock hums lowly. “I have reason to believe that she has seen Moriarty and he did the kidnapping by himself.” He tells him. “Only plausible explanation, Jocelyn would only accompany someone she knows. You've read the text she sent me, she met up with a friend. It's also possible that she was not the one who created the message.” Which then would mean that the ’x’ that John has mentioned earlier was just another means to confuse Sherlock. He should have known, he should have at least realized that she would never text him in such a way. It could have prevented all of this from happening, and made things quicker.

“What if she was drugged? Dragged into a car?”

“No, she is smart. You’ve known her for twelve days, and I know that you’ve observed how she only takes walks on busy streets, never to where she has no idea about the paths they lead to.” Sherlock expands. “Whoever took her, she knew them.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Moriarty, maybe he hired someone else that she might have known?”

“The thought had occurred, but you’ve heard the words. He likes having a dramatic flare for everything he does. I rely on that for my suspicion that Moriarty kidnapped her himself.” Sherlock simply says.

John thinks about it for a second. “He used her because she’s your weakness.”

He scoffs. “Weakness, is that how sentimental people word it? Don’t be absurd.”

“No, Sherlock. You admitted something that involves a consciousness. What did that mean?” John questions, shaking his head as he cranes his neck to face Sherlock.

There’s no point in hiding it anymore. “I’ve told you before how my head is a hard drive and how I only save useful information. Consciousnesses are… different. They’re copies of me manufactured into different figures.” He explains.

“Figures, as in,  _people?”_  John tries to confirm and Sherlock nods. “So, these consciousnesses, they’re just people in your head?”

Now that Sherlock hears it from an outside perspective, it sounds ridiculous. “I guess one could put it that way.”

“And what do they do?” John queries, referring to them as if they are real people.

“They…  _speak_  to me.” Sherlock admits, feeling a bit ridiculous even speaking about it, although John doesn’t seem to think so. In fact, he appears to be impressed.

“So, they have your knowledge but they also act like the people you know in real life? And they look the same as the real ones?”

“Their appearances vary, but yes. That’s one way of putting it.” Sherlock mutters.

“Like for example, who are in there?” John nods towards Sherlock, indicating his head.

The consulting detective shrugs. “Nothing interesting. Mycroft, Dr. Hooper, Anderson,”

“Anderson?” He scoffs with a chuckle.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, Anderson. Even you.” He admits.

“That’s… that’s fascinating.” John expresses, looking back to Jocelyn. “So this Jocelyn consciousness, what’s it like?” He asks, but sees how Sherlock tenses and hesitates. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“I will if you will never mention it to her.” Sherlock keeps his sight straight ahead.

John is surprised, this is the most he’s opened up to him. He never thought this day would come. “I won’t. I meant what I said in there, everything you said will stay between us.” John solemnly swears, eyes locked with his.

Sherlock purses his lips, taking a deep breath. He has never talked about his consciousnesses out loud before, not even Mycroft knows about them. It wouldn’t do well for his brother’s ego if Sherlock reveals to him that he sometimes tries to see things from Mycroft’s perspective in order to have a wise deduction. But to John, he seems to be accepting and understands quite easily. He made the correct choice of a friend, after all. Out of all the confessions that Sherlock has made, he is somewhat thankful that this is the one that he chose to speak about. “Jocelyn, well, the consciousness for this matter, she is situated inside the duplication of the flat we both once shared.” He mutters, taking in John’s expression of puzzlement. He’s practically confirmed to John that they really once lived together, but John has some suspicion of that already. Therefore, it doesn’t really matter. “She acts, speaks and thinks the same as her, but her her mind coincides with mine.” He nods towards the woman lying on her hospital bed.

John slowly nods along, processing it. “So, what, you just summon her and she appears?”

Sherlock scoffs quietly, a hint of a humorless smile on his face. “The Jocelyn consciousness is the one who appears almost at any given time, out of nowhere. But so does the rest of them. There’s not much of a difference except,” he pauses.

John fixes his gaze back to Jocelyn through the glass. “She appears more often.” He finishes Sherlock’s sentence, visibly making the consulting detective frown. “What did you mean about… locking her away?”

He blinks a couple times. “The consciousness brings too much baggage. I can’t afford to have that on a daily basis.” He sighs. “Nonetheless, it still appears. It started again ever since she arrived in Baker Street.” Sherlock makes known. He glances at the ground. “I would prefer it if we could keep this between ourselves.”

John immediately nods. “Of course, yeah.”

“And we must never speak of this again.”

Dr. Watson furrows his brows, pressing his lips together. “Alright.” He agrees.

Sherlock curtly nods. “Good,” He goes to check his watch. “Visiting hours are over, you must return to Baker Street and check on Mrs. Hudson. I need to bring the memory stick to my dear brother.” Sherlock tells Watson, who just shakes his head in agreement before walking down the hallway on his way out. Sherlock turns his focus back on the unconscious woman on her hospital bed. Maybe he can stay for a few seconds before he leaves.

Just then, his expression softens upon seeing her body shift and her eyes fluttering as if to open. Sherlock glances around and sees that no nurse is paying attention as he goes to slip inside the room. His steps were slow and calculated, making his way to the side of the hospital bed. She has a nasal tube on, to help her breathe. Sherlock checks the time, which was half an hour until midnight.

Jocelyn finally reveals her green eyes to him, the heartbeat monitor is steady right next to her head. Sherlock looks upon her, a usual frown on his face. She notices his presence and musters a soft smile, to which Sherlock’s stomach twists. “Hi.”

He narrows his eyes for a split second. “How are you feeling?” His voice is low and raspy, it is comforting in a way for her.

Jocelyn looks around the room without moving her head. “I can’t feel my body, but I feel alright.” She sighs.

“That’s normal. You suffered mild hypothermia.”

“Hypothermia?” Jocelyn widens her eyes and her hand flies to her forehead. “What happened?”

Sherlock knots his brows at her. “You… you don’t remember?”

Jocelyn stays silent for a second, trying her hardest to gather anything she remembers.  _Then, it hits her_. She swallows and shakes her head. “I’m… I’m not supposed to tell you anything.” She mutters.

His face shifts, but softens with realization. “He doesn’t want you to reveal anything. If you do, my life is threatened.” Sherlock deduces and coos. “Oh, he’s good.” He quietly says to himself, looking outside in case a nurse comes back in and scolds him for being inside the patient’s room.

Jocelyn frowns, not liking how he’s complimenting the mastermind of all this, right after she was just abducted and put inside a freezer. “Sherlock, how did you get me out? The door was bolted from both sides and is controlled by a computer.” This is also odd for a walk-in freezer. It was as if the freezer was made to trap people inside, Sherlock thinks. He might have the restaurant be followed up in Scotland Yard the following day.

“Never mind.” Sherlock shakes his head, making the woman press her lips together. “No need to worry about that. You’re safe now, that’s…” He trails off and finishes it with a nod.

She offers a smile. “Thank you, for saving me.” Her words make Sherlock hands ball into fists behind him. “I’d thank John as well, is he here?”

“He went back to Baker Street.” He lets her know. “There’s no need for your gratitude. My reputation as a detective has been used to  _his_  advantage. I’m afraid you’re no longer safe in Baker Street.”

Jocelyn falls silent for a moment. “What are you saying?”

The consulting detective just eyes her for a second. “We’ll speak about this in the morning, I’ve got something I have to do first.” He tells her, turning around to walk out of the room.

Jocelyn barely has any time to respond when Sherlock abruptly leaves the area, and so she sighs to herself as a nurse enters and tends to her wellbeing.  _What is he up to now?_

***

Sherlock opens the door and walks inside, seeing the way the water inside the pool glinted under the light. He looks around for a second and sees the way it’s seemingly empty. He starts to walk, agonizingly slow, his fingers fiddling with the memory stick behind his back. “Bought you a little getting-to-know-you present.” Sherlock holds the memory stick up in the air to show it, playing things safe. “That’s what it’s all been for, isn’t it?” Sherlock mumbles, thinking about everything Moriarty has made him do. “All your little puzzles, making me dance.” The tone is bitter and full of spite. “All to distract me from this,” he grips the memory stick in his hands, turning.

The sound of a door opening has caught his attention, anticipating it to be Moriarty and so he has a grin on his face, but what Sherlock sees, strikes him with horror. His movements falter upon seeing John in his green coat, a determined expression on his face.

“Evening,” the Doctor greets him, but Sherlock knows that he’s only speaking through Moriarty’s words. Sherlock freezes, hands still holding up the memory stick as both their eyes lock with one another. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John, what the hell?” He airs and John continues to talk.

“Bet you never saw this coming, too.” John speaks monotonously. Sherlock slowly strides towards him, but stops as John begins to open his coat. “What would you like me to make him say next?” Then, there’s a small red dot aimed towards John’s chest and it makes Sherlock’s chest cave. “Gottle o’ gear.” John starts to repetitively mention, distracting the consulting detective from even thinking, interrupting John by telling him to stop.

Why hasn’t Sherlock seen this coming? He must have had a feeling that Moriarty is targeting those who are close to him, he  _must_  have! Sherlock refuses to believe that Moriarty has outwitted him once again. He could have prevented this if he weren’t so distracted with maintaining his close distance to Jocelyn.

“Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died.” John keeps talking, but Sherlock is busying himself by analyzing the whole room for anyone or anything. “I stopped him.” John grimaces, as if it is difficult to say the next words. “I can stop John Watson, too.” He makes Sherlock know. “Stop his heart,” John glances down at the red little dot on his chest.

“Who are you?” Sherlock turns around the room for any sign of movement.

Then, he hears another door open from behind, the farthest corner of the room. “I gave you my number,” the voice calls out. “Thought you might call,” his tone was mocking and laced with mischief.

Sherlock’s brows furrow, that voice.  _Where have I heard that voice?_  While he’s looking through his mind for anything, he turns around and meets the man known as Moriarty.

Moriarty went on his way across the other side of the pool. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” He begins as Sherlock reaches behind himself for the gun that Moriarty clearly recited the name of. “Or are you just pleased to see me?” He grins.

Sherlock draws the gun and aims it towards him. “Both.”

Moriarty only stares back at him, unalarmed by the gun aimed at him. “Jim Moriarty,” he introduces himself, almost boredly. “Hi.” His voice is high and childish, but his face held authority.

Sherlock’s face softens in realization, the man from St. Barts. He was the one that Molly introduced as her new lover. Quite nice of him to visit him while Sherlock is solving his puzzle that day. His mind is running too fast, realizing that Jocelyn knew him as the boyfriend of Dr. Hooper and he possibly charmed her enough to maybe spend time with him. Then, he kidnaps her, possibly with spiking her drink with something to make her sleep, her medical record from earlier proved that to him.

 “Jim? Jim from the hospital?” He has an amused expression on his face, hands inside his pockets as he walks with every calculated step, keeping his gaze on Sherlock the entire time. Jim purses his lips, making a twisted face, assuming that Sherlock didn’t recognize him the moment he stepped outside. “Did I really make such a fleeting impression?” Jim asks. “Though, I suppose, that was rather the point.” He smiles at him. Sherlock glances at John and towards the red light on his chest, implying a rifle. Jim notices and walks to the other side of the pool until he was at the far side corner of the pool, opposite Sherlock. “Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” He says. “Except for one incident though,” Moriarty adds, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock narrows his eyes, knowing that Moriarty has just confirmed his suspicion that he did the kidnapping by himself. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see.” He tells him, before a realization dawns over the twisted little man and gives the detective a look. “Like you.”

“Dear Jim,” Sherlock keeps the gun pointed towards him. “Please, will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?” He begins as Jim walks again with a happy smile, as if reminiscing upon the messages he received. “Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?”

Moriarty stands upright. “Just so.”

“Consulting criminal.” Sherlock addressed his career title. “Brilliant.”

“Isn’t it?” Moriarty has a pleased smile, as if he doesn’t have a man strapped into bombs with a rifle aimed at him, just standing a few feet away from him. “No one ever gets to me.” He pauses. “And no one ever will.”

Sherlock cocks his gun. “I did.”

Moriarty is unfazed by his gun. “You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.” His voice is somewhat laced with insanity, John could sense it. From the way he talks like a child and acts like one as well, John can conclude that he is insane.

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I did.” Jim shrugs, lifting both his shoulders in an amusing way. “But the flirting’s over, Sherlock. Daddy’s had enough now.” He singsongs the words, continuing his walk towards Sherlock. “I’ve shown you what I can do.” He keeps is speed at walking, slow and tantalizing. “ I cut loose all those people, all those little problems. Thirty million quid,” He mentions. “Even got Jocelyn , just to get you to come out and play.” He hums, shaking his head. Sherlock tries his best not to seem affected. “She is quite something, I’ll give you that.” He nods, grinning wide. “I’m impressed, Sherlock. Almost couldn’t believe it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, watching him come closer and closer. “Couldn’t believe what?”

Jim scoffs, still maintaining that awful smile. “What do you mean  _‘what’?_  Have you seen her? That pretty little woman,” he sighs, glancing towards the shining water in the pool. “The personality, the class, the physique; she’s nothing like you, Sherlock.” He shakes his head, gesturing with his hands in circular motion. “Which makes me wonder how you were able to acquire such a woman,” He gives him a look of mocking confusion. Sherlock just doesn’t answer or reply anything, only glancing at John to make sure he’s okay. “You should’ve been there when I questioned her inside that walk-in freezer.” He nods, smiling but pausing as if he remembered something. “By the way, did you like the freezer? I designed it myself when the owner of the restaurant once asked me to fetch him human beings to feed on,” He easily says, and John almost groaned in disgust. “When I asked if I could borrow it, he happily obliged.” He smiles.

“Why a freezer?” Sherlock questions.

Jim gives him a shrug. “Jocelyn told me, upon a conversation about the London weather, that cold is nice.” He lets him know. “I thought I was doing her a favor, I mean, London is quite a cold city and I have knowledge that it’s been a long time since she’s been here. So, I thought maybe I could give her something to catch up with.” His voice is childish, and it makes Sherlock want to just shoot him. “You know what I can do, Sherlock. So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear,” he begins, face blank as he stops his tracks. “Back off.” He says. “Although, I have loved this.” He continues his way towards Sherlock, completely unbothered by the gun. “This little game of ours.” He says as if he was a character in a play. “Playing Jim from IT,” he mocks as his face fills with amusement. “Playing gay, did you like the little touch with the underwear?” He asks with his normal voice.

“People have died.” Sherlock bluntly reminds.

“That’s what people  _do!”_ Moriarty’s voice boom across the whole room, making John briefly close his eyes and take a shaky deep breath.

Sherlock keeps the gun pointed to him. “I will stop you.” He claims.

“No, you won’t.” Moriarty shakes his head, eyes dead.

Sherlock glances at John. “Are you alright?”

Moriarty creeps behind John, leaning over to speak into his ear. “You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead.” He grants him permission, making John grimace, trying to shift away from him. He gives Sherlock a look before nodding.

Sherlock’s nose flares, stretching his other arm across to reach the memory stick over to Moriarty. “Take it,” he urged.

“Hm? Oh, That? Missile plans,” His voice is whispered now as he stands in front of Sherlock, taking the memory stick from his hand. As soon as the stick is out of Sherlock’s hand, he immediately grips the gun, points it towards Jim in front of him, all while the consulting criminal holds the memory stick to his mouth, and presses a kiss on it, smiling down at Sherlock. He glances down at the object in his hand, eyes darting back to Sherlock.  _“Boring!”_ He singsongs. “I could have gotten them anywhere.” He makes a move to throw the memory stick to the pool, completely destroying it, shocking Sherlock just before John wraps his arms around Moriarty to hold him hostage this time.

“Sherlock, run!” John forces out, but his friend remains at his place, aiming his gun at the culprit behind all of this.

Moriarty only laughs. “Good!” He somewhat struggles to get out, but manages to say it in a teasing tone. “Very good! Although, this still won’t top the champagne bottle that your other pet tried to swing at me. It was very cute. Especially when I started to question her. She wouldn’t answer anything, but her silences informed plenty.” He widens his eyes, frowning in a playful way. “Don’t worry, Sherlock, I had someone else listen in and turn the handle whenever you spill the beans,” he chuckles. “And that guy is long dead. Your secrets are safe. It won’t be fun anymore if I knew all of them.” He tsks.

John grimaces behind him while Sherlock keeps the determined look on his face. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Would you like me to send you a souvenir? Maybe a tongue?” He asks easily. “You should have heard her scream, Sherlock. Scream while inside that freezer until her voice gave out. I bet you noticed that, didn’t you? When she started to talk?” He taunts him, and John squeezes him tightly as he noticed Sherlock visibly clenching his jaw to contain his anger. “You should have seen how horrified she looked when seeing the body parts in that freezer. Oh, it was wonderful!”

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up.” John lowly tells him, trying to stop him from pushing his flatmate.

“Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around.” He says. “But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets.” Moriarty cranes his neck to look at John. “They’re so touchingly loyal. But, oops!” Moriarty yells, struggling to get out of John’s grasp. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.” He grins upon seeing the red dot aimed into Sherlock’s forehead.

John freezes, eyes widening at his companion. The look on his face said it all to Sherlock, as his eyes shift towards the ground, knowing that John will let go of Moriarty to keep Sherlock alive.

“Gotcha,” Jim confidently remarks as John lets him go, and now he’s adjusting his suit with a stern look on his face, mocking offense. “Westwood.” He gestures to his clothes. The consulting detective’s hands were slightly shaking while holding the gun, and he forces himself to remain calm. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? Do you?” Moriarty asks him.

“Oh, let me guess. I get killed.” He calmly tells him.

“Kill you?” He cringes, crinkles by his eyes starts to form. “No, don’t be obvious.” He mutters, eyes darting to the side. “I mean, I’m going to kill you anyway someday. I don’t want to rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special.” He suppresses a smile. “No, no, no, no, if you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you,” Moriarty looks at Sherlock from head to toe, going back to his eyes. “I’ll burn the  _heart_  out of you,” His face shifts into insanity for a split second before turning back into a bored expression, it didn’t settle well inside Sherlock’s stomach.

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” Sherlock lowly says, making Moriarty grin.

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” The consulting criminal shakes his head, reminding Sherlock of what happened in that basement, right in front of that walk-in freezer, making the other man narrow his eyes at him. “Well, I better be off.” He glances behind him to give Dr. Watson a look. “So nice to have had a proper chat.” Jim licks his lips.

“What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?” Sherlock challenges.

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face,” he forms an ‘o’ with his mouth and widens his eyes towards Sherlock, before he drops the act and gives him a smile. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would,” he explains before frowning. “And just a teensy bit…  _disappointed_.” Moriarty expresses. “And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish is for very long.” He turns his body, but his face is still towards Sherlock. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” He finally goes to walk into the door that John emerged from earlier.

Sherlock nears Dr. Watson, his gun still aimed towards Moriarty. “Catch you later,” he pauses in between words.

“No, you won’t!” He singsongs and closes the door.

The consulting detective lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, eyes immediately on the bombs that were strapped into John’s body. Sherlock, without a warning, throws the gun to the ground and gets on one knee out of anxiety to start taking off the coat that wrapped around John. The alarm on John’s face upon realizing that he still had the bombs on his body was frightening, making him pant in panic. “All right?” Sherlock asks, his fingers were in a hurried manner as they undid any strap he could reach. “Are you all right?” He repeats when John doesn’t respond.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” John forces out of himself. Sherlock is still frantic, not believing his words as he pushes the coat off the Doctor’s shoulders. “I’m fine, Sherlock—” The other man is still not listening as he threw the coat across the floor to put some distance between them. “Sherlock!” John watches how the same panic he saw from the basemen earlier reflects again in his face. John breathes heavily, still trying to wrap his mind around the whole situation. Sherlock moves on to the doors, checking to see if anyone is still there. John goes to follow him, but his knees weaken, giving out as he tries to gain his balance again while cursing.

Sherlock continues to looks around, trying to make sure that the coast is clear. He starts to pace, thinking about everything that Moriarty has told him. If his deductions were correct, then everyone close to him would be in danger. Everyone, and that also includes Jocelyn; as Moriarty has displayed to him a few hours ago. He doesn’t want to believe that Moriarty really did have a man killed in order to keep Sherlock’s secrets, then how did he know when Sherlock is telling a secret or not? Something tells him that Moriarty was bluffing, but another part of him believed that he was telling the truth. But how can you possibly trust a criminal?

“Are you okay?” John asks, crouching down on the ground and leaning his back against the wall.

Sherlock is still pacing, barely registering what John had asked him. “Me? Yeah, fine. I’m fine. Fine.” He rambles. He turns around to keep pacing, but sheepishly glances at John. “That, uh, thing that you,” he gestures towards him, shifting awkwardly. “That you did, that, um,” he clears his throat. “—you offered to do, that was, um,” he thinks of a word, hesitating. “Good.”

John tilts his head.  _Did Sherlock Holmes thank me?_  He wasn’t quite sure. John shifts the topic and say that he was glad that no one saw them since Sherlock did just rip his clothes off, people might talk. Sherlock shoots back something clever and lightens the mood. He goes to stand up but notices the small red laser pointed on his chest again, the same way it did earlier. John freezes, hearing the door open.

“Sorry, boys, I’m so changeable!” Moriarty comes back, dragging the vowel in ‘so’. “It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it  _is_ my only weakness!” He claims. Sherlock has a rifle pointed towards him as well, looking up. “You can’t be allowed to continue.” Moriarty shakes his head. “You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I want to say has already crossed your mind!”

Sherlock glances at John, who nods at him, clearly receiving the message from just one look. “And probably my answer has crossed yours,” he turns and aims the gun towards Moriarty before slowly lowering the aim and shifting it towards the bomb that just had been attached to John Watson. They both will die if Sherlock decides to shoot, but at least it’ll be with Moriarty, but what made him suspicious is how the consulting criminal only smiles at him.

It isn’t until music started to play. Sherlock can’t recall the title of the song, but he remembers it being played by Jocelyn once, dancing to the song in the middle of the kitchen of the Baker Street flat. He looks around for any source of the music, but his sight falls on Jim Moriarty, who looked annoyed. John seems as confused as Sherlock, brows knotting together.

“Do you mind if I get that?” Moriarty boredly asks Sherlock as if they’re not in the middle of crossfire.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Oh, no. Please, you’ve got the rest of your life.” He flicks his gun as a gesture, watching him intently.

Moriarty reaches for his phone and answers. “Hello? Yes, of course it is. What do you want?” He immediately says upon pressing his phone to his ear. “Sorry,” he mouths towards Sherlock in an apologetic manner.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Sherlock mouths back.

Moriarty shifts, turning his body. “Say that again!” He yells into the phone, making John flinch a bit and Sherlock look at him suspiciously. “Say that again and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will  _skin_ you.” He exclaims. “Wait,” he lowers the phone and glances at the two men before walking forward. “Sorry, wrong day to die.”

“Oh, did you get a better offer?” Sherlock asks.

Moriarty glances down at the phone and grins at him. “You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.”  He reminds before turning and walking off, continuing to talk to whomever was on the other end of the line. Then, he snaps his fingers on the way out and almost immediately, the rifles were taken off their aims.

John sighs. “What happened there?”

Holmes blinks twice, prying his worried thoughts off the woman on her hospital bed at the very moment and tries to focus on the situation at hand. “Someone changed his mind.” He answers him before continuing with,

“The question is;  _who?”_


	9. The Moon

The time was eight in the morning when Jocelyn wakes up on her hospital bed. She grumbles in pain when a pair of arms attacks her, wrapping around her frail body.

“Oh, God, when John called, I came as soon as I could!” Harry Watson exclaims into her hair, her voice is dramatic as usual.

“H-Harry?” She lets out a surprised sound, wrapping one arm around her since her body is still quite weak. “What are you doing here?” She grins a bit.

She lets go after a few seconds and sits next to her bed. “John called me and I boarded the earliest flight. I heard you were stuck inside a freezer!” She says in sheer terror. “How did that happen? Did he put you up to this?” She turns her head across the room and in doing that, she lets Jocelyn know that John is sitting by the door, holding his hands up in defense.

Jocelyn scans the room and manages to spot Sherlock just outside, speaking to the detective that she met back in Baker Street a few days ago. At a split second, their gazes meet, but she looks away when Harry continues to speak. “I’m so sorry for my brother, I do hope that you can forgive him.”

She waves her off. “It’s not his fault. Besides, I’m okay now.”

“I don’t want to alarm you, Jocelyn, but your whole body was— _ow!”_ John exclaims when Harry hits his arm.

“Don’t scare the poor girl!” She scolds and makes his brother glare at her.

“Really, I’m fine.” Jocelyn insists. Sherlock walks inside the room and closes the door behind him, lacing both his hands together behind his back. Harry Watson scoffs at him, shaking her head. Then, Jocelyn notices how John glances at Sherlock, most importantly the one side of his face. Her eyes widen a bit upon seeing a slightly red mark on his skin and gapes at Harry. “Did you… did you slap him?” She asks with disbelief.

Harry scoffs, gesturing her full hand towards the consulting detective. “He had it coming! If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have been inside that freezer in the first place.” She huffs.

“You didn’t have to slap him!” Jocelyn frowns at her before turning to Sherlock.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock mutters, wanting the topic to be dropped. “Lestrade wants to question you, it’s mandatory.” He simply says. John sighs, takes his glaring sister out of the room, and lets the Inspector inside.

“But, I’m not supposed to say anything.” Jocelyn nervously reminds Sherlock.

“It’s all right now, Jocelyn.” Greg begins, taking a seat by the hospital bed while Sherlock remains standing. “Sherlock and John confronted Moriarty last night. I don’t think he’ll bother anyone in a while, but who knows.”

Her eyes widens, head snapping towards the curly-haired man. “What? You’ve met him?” She asks, to which Sherlock gives her one nod. “How?”

“I scheduled a meeting, set up a place and he came,” Sherlock explains, raising his eyebrows for impact. “Although he used John as a hostage, just like what Moriarty did to you, but he was strapped into explosives.” His words leave her mouth hanging.

Lestrade gives Sherlock a look before turning back to Jocelyn. “How exactly did you end up in that freezer? Can you start from the scratch?”

She collects a much of her memory as possible. Jocelyn explains how she thought that Jim is only Dr. Hooper’s boyfriend, and he was nice to her when they met. Sherlock frowns, realizing how manipulative Moriarty can be. Even Jocelyn, the one person who never trusts people easily, has been fooled by him. It really showed how powerful he could be.

“Jim asks me to have lunch with him the other day and I went with him because I thought that it would be alright,” she sighs and goes to scratch her arm, hissing. Her skin is still very sensitive after what happened. “He takes me this restaurant, and surprisingly, we were sat at a lounge so we were completely out of sight from others. I think he spiked my drink and when I realized this, I tried to fight back but the drug kicked in faster than expected and… I woke up in that freezer.” She mutters. “I thought it was just a room at first, it only turned on when they came,” she eyes Sherlock for a second. “I was in there the whole day. Jim keeps delivering food to me and I always throw it back at him.” Her words were slow. “He always cleans it up though, and never complained or hurt me.” Jocelyn sighs, glancing at Greg who only urges her to continue. “Other than that  _and_ freezing me to death, he just asked questions. I never answered any of them.”

“What kind of questions?”

“I barely remember, but all of them revolved around me.” Jocelyn informs them, peaking Sherlock’s interest. “You don’t have to worry, he asked nothing about you,” she tells him when her attention turned to the other man.

That was the least bit of his worries. Now, whatever Moriarty gathered from Jocelyn, it can certainly be used against her. This is even worse for Sherlock, it made his lips twitch in stress. As Lestrade continued to question her, Sherlock stood by her to watch every movement of her face and body.

Lestrade leaves an hour later. He offered Sherlock another case involving the cannibal owner of that restaurant, but he finds himself declining before going back to Jocelyn’s room. Greg purses his lips and stands outside the room to watch Sherlock for a moment, observing how he looks at the woman. Greg assumes that the other detective is clueless by the way he treats her, so he sighs and leaves the hospital.

John and Harry were in the café down the street, where Harry Watson complains to her brother about what happened to Jocelyn during her two-week stay. Dr. Watson tries to keep his mouth shut about the banker case where the forensic pathologist was almost strangled to death.

On the other hand, Sherlock pours tea into a cup and offers it to Jocelyn. She quietly thanks him, sipping the hot liquid and sighing. He looks over at the table and spots red and green apples stacked in a basket. Harry brought those earlier and Sherlock does remember how fond Jocelyn is about apples. He takes one and hands a green apple to her, and she smiles at the gesture. Sherlock only gave her the apple because she needs one, of course. Not because he’s concerned.

“I can leave in a few hours, right?”

Sherlock gives her a look, before turning his back to make some tea for himself. “The Doctor said you’re likely to be released tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow?” She gapes. “But the conference is tomorrow!”

“Yes, and John’s sister insists that you should not attend and remain here for your recovery.”

“I came all the way here for that conference, to be a guest speaker in it, and you’re telling me that I can’t attend?” She is very persistent as Sherlock remembers her to be.

“Give your body time to heal. You almost froze to death.”

“Sherlock, I need to attend that.” She closes her eyes briefly. “Or else, I’m just letting Moriarty win against me.”

Her words silence him, making the detective glance at her. The hope in her eyes are eminent, he can’t believe he gives in. “I’ll speak with your doctor,” he tells her and drew a breath of relief and a smile from the woman. It pleases him, and Sherlock dislikes the feeling. He can feel his dopamine increase, it’s difficult to just contain it. “You speak with Miss Watson. I’d rather not have a red handprint on my face.”

“I’m sorry, again. For that.” She cleared her throat. “She can be a bit overprotective.”

“She loves you.” He bluntly says.

Jocelyn frowns. She knows that, of course. Sherlock’s not the only observant person in the world, although his skills are more advanced than hers is. This only confirms many things. “It was that obvious?”

Sherlock blinks at her before nodding. “Quite. I’m surprised that John hasn’t caught on. He can be slow at times.”

She only looks away from him. “Harry had a wife when we met, and she was heavily drinking at that time as well. She left Clara, I didn’t feel the same, and it broke her heart, but we decided to remain friends. I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she is speaking too fast, but he managed to understand each word.

Sherlock assumes that the situation is complicated. He didn’t know what she went through the past eight years, and it’s getting even more difficult to continue hating her. No, he can remain hateful towards her while helping her. It’s what would please Dr. Watson, if Sherlock were nice to her at least. “I see.” He simply nods. “Excuse me,” he turns around to leave the room, finding the restroom. He chose not to use the one inside her private room, since he knew what would happen.

Jocelyn watches him leave and groans to herself. Of course, she scared him off. Sherlock passes John and Harry, where Dr. Watson watches him with confusion. “Sherlock—”

“Yes.” He answers before John asks him if he was fine, and continues to walk past them. John pauses and looks back, sternly watching the consulting detective walk off. John sighed and continued to walk back to Jocelyn’s room with his sister. He wonders what happened inside the private room with Jocelyn.

“Is he always like that?” Harry asks him.

“Happens more often than you think.”

Sherlock walks inside the restroom and locks the door after making sure he was alone. He grips the edge of the sink and takes a deep breath before closing his eyes. He transports himself to his mind palace and immediately sees himself inside the Musgrave Hall flat, looking around and just waiting.

“Something is  _definitely_  wrong,” he turns around when he hears her voice. She’s wearing a hospital gown and her feet were bare. She glances at him with an amused smile and suspicious pair of eyes. “You came here willingly.”

“I needed to speak with you.” Sherlock admits and starts to pace around the room, heart pounding.

“Is this about Harry Watson being in love with me? Because—”

“No,” he cuts her off. “Moriarty.”

Her face fell. “Jim Moriarty, the man who kidnapped me.” She mutters.

“He admitted into killing the man who listened to me reveal all of that, but the handle refused to turn when I admitted into hating you,” he tells her. “And he calls to tell me the meaning if a secret. He was listening, he had to be,” he raises his hand, pointer finger up. “Did he make a mistake?”

Jocelyn stares at him for a second. “You’re viewing this from the wrong direction,” she points out, walking forward and grabs his shoulders to stop him from pacing. “Moriarty is many things, but a liar is not one of them. Not to you, anyway. The man he killed was the one manipulating that woman into speaking. Which means?” She offers him a smile.

He blinks at her, feeling the weight of her hands on both his shoulders. “Both Moriarty and the man he killed questioned Jocelyn without her realizing.”

Her smile widens, almost proud at him for figuring it out. It’s always the same smile he used to see on her face years ago. “Problem solved. Find out who the man is. Are we done here?” Her hands drop from his shoulders.

He hesitates. Did he want to leave now? He knows that he doesn’t want to. He stares back at her, frowning. “When I held you in my arms, you felt dead.”

Her smile fades and is replaced by an expression he cannot decipher. “And what did that feel like?”

Sherlock pauses, not sure if he can really say it aloud or not. He isn’t very experienced when it comes to emotions. “Terrifying,” he mutters under his breath, swallowing. “I can never admit that to John, or Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson. Especially not to you,” he refers to her real version.

“You can let your guard down here.” Jocelyn states. “There’s no need to choke on your own pride when you’re here—”

She is cut off by his arms wrapping around her body, making her gasp and still for a moment. Sherlock buries his face into the crook of her neck, arms tightening around her. Her familiar scent fills his senses and  _fuck,_ did it feel so good. He recalls the feeling of having his arms around her petite body when she begged for warmth in that basement. He sighs, eyes fluttering closed and he fears that when he opens them, he wouldn’t be here anymore. He feels are arms slowly reach up to embrace him as well, her slender fingers slightly caressing his back. It’s what she always used to do whenever he hugged her, Sherlock always believed that she does it absentmindedly.

“You could lose me at any possible second. Might as well finally speak to me about certain things,” she mutters into his shoulder.

That brought him back to life, his eyes open and he lets go of her. He is ashamed by his actions and stumbles backwards. Jocelyn frowns at him as the detective points a suspecting finger at her. “You’re manipulating me, again. Oh, this is just brilliant!” He spits. “You never will care for me, you just want me weak and pathetic.”

The Jocelyn consciousness blinks, a saddened expression on her face. “Sherlock, please listen—”

He lets out a deep scream, screwing his eyes shut and clutching both of his temples with his hands. He crouches down, throat hurting as he opened his eyes to the sound of his phone ringing. He finds himself back in the restroom, knees wobbling as he gripped the sink to balance himself. He needed a fix, he desperately needed a needle. Sherlock winces and reaches for his phone, groaning upon reading his brother’s name. He answers the call and pinches the skin between his eyebrows. “What is it?”

“I’m right outside Jocelyn’s hospital room, I need to speak with you.” Mycroft easily tells him, his tone is expressionless and uncaring as usual. “Dr. Watson informed me that you’ve gone to the loos.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.” He monotonously replies and hangs up, scoffing at his brother.

It took him a while to orient himself. He can’t believe he gave into his own thoughts, he hates himself for it. It will never happen again, never. Sherlock will have more control over himself in the future.

When he came back to the room, Mrs. Hudson and Harry are currently inside with Jocelyn. Mycroft is standing outside as he described, with John. Mycroft appeared unimpressed and disappointed, whilst John is only concerned. “Quite like you to put Miss Fray in harm’s way.” He has a humorless smile on his face, which only makes Sherlock’s blood boil. “You should have listened to me when I offered to move her elsewhere,” Mycroft glares at him.

“You offered to move her because you thought it was for  _my_  sake, not hers. Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock shoots back at him.

“Alright, girls,” John interrupts. “Not here.” He reminds, nodding towards the people inside the room.

Mycroft ignores Dr. Watson. “That was for  _both_  of your sakes,” he huffs, clutching the handle of his umbrella. “It’s clear that you cannot handle having an addition to your flat, it’s best if we move her now.”

“She’s leaving in two days to stay with Harry, anyway. There’s no point to find a place and have her stay there for a day.” John counters him with a tone quite the opposite of theirs.

Mycroft sighs, checking his watch. “Dr. Watson, as much as I appreciate your...  _presence_  around my younger brother, I’d like to speak to him alone.”

John glances at Sherlock, who only nods at him before he gives Mycroft one last look as he walks inside the room where Jocelyn is situated in. Sherlock turns to Mycroft, cautious. “I know what you’re going to say,”

“A bloody  _freezer_ , Sherlock!” He keeps his voice whispered, but stern.

The detective sighs. He was quite aware of how sentimental Mycroft is when it comes to her. The years haven’t washed that away. Although, it is still a mystery to him onto why his brother offered to move her in the first place, with his reason being Jocelyn posing as a great danger —  _as Watson worded it_ — if he was so caring towards her now. “In my defense, I wasn’t the one who put her there,” he says even though he deeply knew it was his fault.

His brother’s nose flared. “You’re the reason why she ended up inside in the first place. Taunting a criminal mastermind? Have you lost your mind already? I’ve deduced it wouldn’t happen until your sixties,” he bitterly informs him.

“I know that you’re, well, angry—”

The eldest Holmes raises an eyebrow at him. “Angry? Jocelyn was put in a freezer to rot while you frolic around different cases that never mattered more than her life.” Mycroft grips his umbrella tightly. “I’m obviously  _not_  angry.” His eyes are hooded.

Sherlock’s body fills with rage. “Why are you being so incompetent? Stop acting like you care about her. And since when did you even forgive her for what she’s done?”

Mycroft sighs. “Oh, for God’s sake— _this isn’t about what happened!”_   He presses. “If you’re so inclined to dwell in the past, then you should have listened. None of this would have happened—”

“As if your arrangements would have prevented all of this in the first place. Moriarty would have still taken her,”

He tilted his chin up. “He wouldn’t have known of her existence if you have contacted me the moment she arrived in Baker Street because of your lovely Army Doctor.”

“If you’re going to blame anyone, pick me. Not John Watson.” He interjects. “I’ve had enough of this.” Sherlock mutters, walking past him to leave the building. Although, he knew his brother was right. After what she did, it would be a logical move to contact his brother and inform him of such event; her arrival. However, he didn’t, and he can’t understand why. Maybe because he didn’t want her to leave, which made anger boil inside him even more. He  _needed_  a fix.

Mycroft lets out a breath through his nose, head turning back towards Jocelyn. He is supposed to be at work during this hour, but as soon as he got the call from his assistant—whom he tasked to watch over the forensic pathologist—he dropped everything. He simply couldn’t pass this opportunity to see her after what happened. Once Mrs. Hudson left to tend to Speedy’s, and the Watson siblings went to get takeout for Jocelyn, Mycroft steps inside to finally speak to her.

Jocelyn feels a wave of relief upon seeing him again. “It’s about time you came in. You kept lingering by the window,” she softly says.

“I’m not one to barge into a room filled with people to speak to a person I prefer to be alone with.” He takes a seat next to the hospital bed and balances both his gloved hands on the umbrella handle. “I’ve spoken to your doctor, you’re free to leave this evening.” The words he spoke brought such joy to her, although she thought that it would be Sherlock who would speak to her doctor. She didn’t mind though, but when she saw him leave and it did bring a sharp pang to her chest. “Dr. Watson informed me of your eagerness to leave. I suppose this has something to do with that conference you’d be attending. Is such event that special?”

“Yes, it is.” She insists. “I’m very passionate of my career choice. I may not save lives, but at least I contribute into figuring out who takes them. Maybe even prevent loss in the future.” She explains and her persistence only brings half a smile to Mycroft’s face.

“You continue to astound me, Miss Fray. I deeply apologize for any inconvenience that my brother has brought to you.”

“This wasn’t his fault, Mycroft. If that’s what you’re getting at, it’s not.” She assures him, reaching over to place her hand on top of his, which rests on his umbrella’s handle. She is still hooked into an IV and made the eldest Holmes look down at her frail hand. “Don’t blame him for this,”

Mycroft pauses. “Look at you,” he sighs, observing her with a defeated expression. “Still protecting him even when he’s wrong,”

“He saved me,” she disregards what he said. “I don’t know how, but he got me out. That’s all that matters to me.” She shakes her head.

Mycroft silences for a moment, gives her a nod, making her smile a bit, and thanks him. “I had a feeling you’d try to convince me,” he reaches inside his coat for a folder and places it on her lap. “It’s optional for you to go back to New York,” he simply says.

Jocelyn gives him a look before flipping through the files. Her eyes widen and her lips part in realization. “I got relocated?” Her voice came out in a hushed tone of disbelief. “Mycroft, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I didn’t, you’ve been relocated for a week now. I simply sent someone to retrieve all the files for you.” He says as if it was no big deal, but certainly has changed Jocelyn’s life. She can’t believe it, she’s staying permanently in London now.

“I... don’t know what to say.” She lets out a laugh, overwhelmed with happiness. It pleased Mycroft to at least be the bearer of good news.

“You’re allowed to go back to New York, if you have any belongings or any person waiting for you back there. If not, we can find you a place to settle after your conference.” He tells her.

“Why are you doing this?” Jocelyn finds herself asking. She left for eight years and he still treats her as if nothing happened. As if she never did what she did.

Mycroft wonders the same, but he only curls up the corners of his mouth to give her a warm smile. “You’re not a stranger to me, Jocelyn. And I will not treat you as such.” He pushes his feet to lift himself up when hearing the footsteps of the Watsons nearing the door.

Harry walks in after John does, carrying paper bags of Chinese takeout with them. Mycroft nods at the two before letting himself out. Jocelyn wonders how she ever got so lucky to be surrounded with such people.

\--

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Jocelyn huffed as they left the formal hall.

Three weeks into their friendship, Sherlock had found her quite complicated in some ways. Maybe some people could understand her quickly, but not Sherlock. He was still trying to figure her out and every single day, he learned something new. From Jocelyn, and even about Jocelyn. A few minutes ago, another student had been harassing Jocelyn. He can’t even remember why, but he remembered some of the boy’s words being very sexist. Sherlock was normally quiet, but seeing how offended Jocelyn looked made something surface from deep inside him and he couldn’t bite his tongue back.

Sherlock followed behind her. “He was being rude.”

Jocelyn turned around to face him, an annoyed expression on her face. “Yeah! Before you revealed to everyone that Scott is cheating on his girlfriend! And  _why_  he got bored of her in the first place.”

“I meant no offense to her, it was simply to point out how shallow Mr. Jefferson is and how he had been sleeping with another female the night before, which is somehow a very big disappointment for the other half of the relationship.” Sherlock quickly explained. “In my defense, she deserved to know.” Sherlock muttered.

She only sighed, exasperated. “Yes, I know that she should have known but you didn’t have to reveal it to an audience. She was humiliated!” Jocelyn closed her eyes. “And you got us both kicked out, great. I didn’t even get to eat my damn apple.”

“If you hadn’t gone to my defense, you wouldn’t get kicked out as well.” Sherlock told her.

“Well, too bad, Sherlock. We’re friends, and I have to stick up for you.” Jocelyn rolled her eyes, checking her phone and already seeing a ton of messages, including one from her higher ups, questioning her about what happened and demanding her presence in the Office. She almost groaned, being part of the campus’ officers was starting to be a burden, especially when you have a friend with traits as Sherlock. She didn’t think Sherlock is a burden, of course, but some people might. And she didn’t want that for him because he’s better than everybody.

Sherlock frowned, looking down at his shoes before he revealed the apple he hid behind his back. He took it while she wasn’t looking, when the left in a hurry outside. Jocelyn’s face softened and she peered upwards at the boy. “I’m sorry,” he quietly said, eyes filled with concern over her.

Jocelyn’s heart fluttered and the words brought a small smile on her face. “You’re lucky that you’re cute,” she blurted out, but immediately reddened when she realized what she said. Jocelyn backtracked as Sherlock observed the way her cheeks flushed, much to his confusion.  _Cute? Not a fitting word to describe him, honestly._ He thought to himself. “I mean, you’re lucky that I forgive you.” She simply said and took the apple from his hand. “I have to speak to the Chancellor now, you go ahead to class. It’s never too early.” She told him, a bit too softly, looking down at her feet to avoid his eyes.

“Will you be alright?” He asked.

She is going to the Chancellor’s office to explain Sherlock’s actions and defend him so he wouldn’t go into trouble, even if it means that she will. Instead of telling him this, she just smiled and tilted her head up, nodding at the boy. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll see you in a few hours.” She went to turn around and walk away, but thankfully, Sherlock’s reflexes are on point so he immediately grabbed her arm.

Sherlock frowned, stopping her from walking away. “You’re dreading to see the Chancellor.” He stated.

Jocelyn let out a sigh. “I just don’t want you to get in trouble. Scott’s parents might get involved here. I don’t want you brother to be so hard on you again.”

He relaxed, finally knowing what this is all for. He let go of her arm and kept his eyes on her face. “You don’t have to keep defending me from him.”

“Sometimes, he just doesn’t understand you or the things you do.” Jocelyn couldn’t help but reach over to grab both his hands. “Sherlock, you are my friend. And standing up for you has always been my pleasure.” She told him sincerely.

“Well, you’re certainly no longer a stranger to my older brother now.” Sherlock felt something inside his chest, a warm feeling. He felt it as he stared into her green eyes, seeing the natural light in them. He couldn’t figure out what that feeling was, but he felt as though he craved it. He gave her a nod and looked at their hands, seeing the way they fit together. Why was he having very odd thoughts? His mind was racing, memorizing the feel of her soft hands, every single inch as if he feared that he might never hold her hands ever again. Sherlock exhaled, still observing their hands.

Jocelyn pressed her lips together and smiled a bit, seeing the fascination on his face. Every new thing, he looked at it with such mesmerized eyes. She slowly slipped her hands out of Sherlock’s grasp. “I have to go,”

He cleared his throat, reaching up to swipe the pad of his thumb on his cupid’s bow, as if he felt caught in appearing to be distracted. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He finished with a tight smile and put his hands inside his pockets, still tingling from how she held them.

Jocelyn nodded and gave him one last look before heading down to the office where a few people were waiting for her. Sherlock ought to convince her to quit as a campus officer and just focus with studying, even though he believed that she’s been handling both things quite well. He watched her walk off for a moment before turning the other way and making his way to his next class, not caring that he’s half an hour early.

\--

She’s released from the hospital hours later, and is being helped by John to walk up the stairs to his flat. She repeatedly told him that she can walk, but John insisted. He leads her to his armchair, setting her down carefully and starts a fire within the fireplace. Harry left hours ago, telling her that she will call soon. She hasn’t found a place yet, so she settles for a hotel and Jocelyn can’t possibly stay in such a place yet.

Sherlock is conducting an experiment in the kitchen when they arrived, complete with the laboratory glasses, gloves, lighter and a thumb he picked up from the morgue. John cringes, that is not a good sight for someone who just left the hospital. “Really?”

“Oh, good evening, John.” Sherlock greets lowly, putting the thumb inside a beaker filled with God knows what.

John pauses, watching him for a second before glancing at Jocelyn who is occupied with reading through the folder that Mycroft gave her. He turns back to his flatmate. “What the bloody  _hell_ , Sherlock—”

“Occupying myself,” he gestures towards his experiment.

“I texted you earlier,” John glares at him for a second.

“And I ignored it, as per usual.” He muttered, slowly squatting to be in eye-level with the beaker to observe the contents or to read the measurements.

John gives up and rests his forearms on the table, leaning over. “Mycroft got her the files she needed to be transferred here.” He began and it is enough to make Sherlock freeze and glance at him for a moment before standing upright.

“Oh?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Of course, Mycroft is doing everything he can to help Jocelyn now. From this conversation alone, he already knows that his dear brother is going to find Jocelyn her own place in London.

“Yeah, she’s not going back to New York.” John shakes his head. “Mycroft said he’s going to help her. Never thought I’d see your brother help anyone, at all.” He jokingly says.

Somehow, those words gave Sherlock a rush of relief and he couldn’t believe how his body kept betraying his mind and thoughts. It was inappropriate, his reaction. He hoped that John would remain clueless. “I believe that pleases her. And my dearest big brother.” He mockingly says.

John brows furrow. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re not the least bit glad that she gets to stay in London?”

He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “Why would I be?” He asks incredulously.

John frowns at his friend’s cluelessness, or ignorance. He pushes himself off the counter and clears his throat. “I don’t know. I just thought you’d care. What, with after everything that happened.” He shrugs. John doesn’t mention the consciousness talk that they’ve had earlier. He thinks that it’s best if he doesn’t unsettle the man.

Sherlock huffs. “Caring is not an advantage, John. You should remember that.” He goes back to his experiment, completely ignoring his presence.

John scoffs at him, shaking his head disapprovingly as he makes his way back to the living room. He sees Jocelyn still going through her files, but she looks up at him with a smile that he returns right back. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. It feels great to be back here.” She tells him, glancing at the kitchen door. “Is he okay?”

“He’s experimenting on a human thumb, I’m sure he’s fine.” He waves off, sitting on his armchair in front of her. “It’s really nice of Mycroft to help you with all this.”

She hums, nodding along. “I refused a lot, but he kept insisting. Getting him to stop was never my strongest suit.” She offers a smile.

To John, this wasn’t the Mycroft who he met at that isolated place during the first days of him and Sherlock meeting. The Mycroft he met was the cold and unemotional man, much like his brother but without the constant acting like a complete arsehole. This man, though, the one helping Jocelyn settle in the city of London, the same man who stood outside of her hospital room to watch over, it wasn’t like the Mycroft that John first knew. He seemed different, in a good way. Question was, why was Jocelyn so nervous onto seeing him again if Mycroft has acted quite generous towards her? Even more generous than anyone in his life?

He looked around the flat, a bit anxious about the whole situation. After what Moriarty did to Jocelyn, there’s no telling to what extent he’s willing to go to keep making Sherlock dance. He felt nervous for Jocelyn, now that he has grown an attachment or sentimentality towards her. It was quite easy to care for Jocelyn, in a way. “Mycroft is the last person I’d think of that would willingly help someone other than his brother.” He teases, in which Jocelyn giggles at.

A few hours later, John slept in Sherlock’s room as usual. Jocelyn is in the living room, reading about Scotland Yard on her laptop. It’s most likely that she’ll be working there. Sherlock is still quite busy with his experiment, he hasn’t left the kitchen since Jocelyn came back. Although, she assumes that he is done when it suddenly grew quiet. She taps her fingers on the table, biting her bottom lip as she skims through the files by scrolling down. The conference is tomorrow, and she’ll be a speaker. She thinks she can handle herself in front of crowds, so it will be all right.

The door slides open and the light coming from the kitchen shines over her face. She glances to her right and sees Sherlock enter the living room still wearing his clothes from earlier but lacking the coat. He goes to his violin, completely ignoring her presence as silence fills the room. Sherlock sits on his armchair and cleans the violin as he always does before playing. They sat in complete silence, except for the constant tapping of the keyboard on her computer.

It surprises Jocelyn when the consulting detective decides to break the silence. “Two people were there during your detainment inside that freezer, when Moriarty questioned you,” he informs her without consideration of how she might react.

Her body freezes as she pauses her reading. “Oh? How do you say that?”

“A minor slip-up, of course.” He nonchalantly says, as if he hadn’t just revealed that there was another man observing her with Moriarty. “I have to find this man, but as of now, I have no lead.”

She frowns. “Okay,” her eyebrows furrow, not quite sure how she should receive that information.

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyeing the room for a second. “John mentioned how you’ll be staying in London after all.” He changes the topic, noticing how disturbed she is for some reason.

“I don’t really have anything to go back to at New York.” She mutters.

He knots his eyebrows together. What about the child of her neighbors? Surely, he’d be important enough to be her desktop background. He found himself not asking, and he felt ridiculous because the only reason he could think of why is because he didn’t want to give her a reason to go back. He pushes the thought to the back of his head, reminding himself that he hates her and the reason why. “Mycroft is helping, I heard.”

She smiles to herself. “You know how he’s like.”

“Protective over you.” He blows over the violin, wiping it afterwards to remove the dust.

She lets out a small laugh. “Now, don’t be jealous, Sherlock.”

He feels appalled. “Jealous? Why would I be  _jealous_?” Sherlock glances at her with an odd look.

Jocelyn has a teasing expression on her face. “Don’t worry, he loves you too.” She reassures him jokingly, going back to her computer.

Sherlock relaxes, realizing how she meant.  _Glad that was cleared up_. Jealousy was never one of Sherlock’s constant emotions, he’d never wanted anything in life that he couldn’t have. There was nothing to be envious for. Maybe a few things, but not the extreme ones. He pushes up on his toes, settling the violin on his shoulder before positioning the bow on the strings. He starts to play, and it’s a very familiar tune to Jocelyn’s ears. Not one that he composed, but she recognizes it immediately.

Jocelyn hums. “Second Nocturne, Opus nine. Chopin.” She softly says, looking up at Sherlock, who is very focused on playing. When he heard her immediately tell him the name of the piece, he switches to another one. It’s quite liberating to challenge someone and Sherlock is no different. She grins, closing her laptop when she realizes that a game is commencing. “Prelude in C Major. Bach.” She crosses her legs. Sherlock turns to her, not that impressed just yet. He switches to another piece that she takes too long to answer.

“Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock immediately told her. “It’s actually Liszt, second Hungarian Rhapsody.”

Jocelyn huffs in an amused way. “They’re quite similar, wouldn’t you say?”

“More differences than similarities, I’d say.” He plays another piece and she was much quicker with this one.

Jocelyn grins. “Twenty-fourth Caprice. Paganini.” She shifts in her seat, pulling her legs to her chest as she situates herself in a much more comfortable position. The only person she knows that could play Paganini without breaking a sweat was Sherlock. He was that good, in her opinion. He continues to play even after she answered, and all she could do is admire him. The light coming from the window seeps through and settles on half his body, while the rest remained in the dark.

Then, he shifts smoothly to another piece that she recognized almost immediately. A sad smile appeared on her face, watching as he played slowly, the movements of his arm are slow. She bites her lip and gives him a moment, afraid that if she answered, he’ll stop. Sherlock frowns, still not receiving an answer from her so he stops after a minute. When he did, she hugged her legs to her chest. “Clair de Lune. Debussy.” She quietly answers.

“You took too long.” Sherlock lowers the violin from his shoulder, walking to the case and placing the instrument back inside.

Jocelyn’s thoughtful smile fades and she hides her mouth by pressing them against her clothed knees. She sighs, closing her eyes. “That was my favorite piece of all classical music.” She softly says.

He pauses, hesitating. “I know.” Sherlock mutters under his breath, and she hears it.

She couldn’t explain the thumping of her heart as she looks at Sherlock, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. A fitting use of music. The moon looks so beautiful, especially when they were in his eyes. It hits her all at once, the feeling of longing. Sherlock knows her more than anyone, it wouldn’t take him long to deduce how much she actually misses him and the way they were all those years ago. She is brought back to reality when she hears the closing of the violin case.

Sherlock clears his throat and goes to sit on the couch, he could feel the tension rising slowly but he isn’t quite sure what to do about it. He glances at Jocelyn, seeing how she’s standing up and carries her laptop. “I better sleep.” She softly tells him, running her fingers through her hair to push it back. The moonlight washes over her side, and Sherlock could feel the dull beating of his chest. He gives her a curt nod and shifts his glance to the ground.

She presses her lips together awkwardly, nodding to herself before walking upstairs to get some much-needed sleep. The sound of violin and the light of the moon are still circulating inside her mind.


	10. The Woman

Jocelyn stood in front of the mirror to observe her dress. It was a classy black and white pencil dress that definitely looks professional. Especially if she throws on a matching blazer. She looked good to go, as she gathered her things and started to walk downstairs. She hears the television on, with John standing in the kitchen to wash his hands. Sherlock isn’t anywhere to be seen so she naturally assumes he’s in the bathroom. She walks inside the kitchen and clears her throat, a grin on her face.

John turns around and raises his brows at her appearance. A wide smile appears on his face. “Wow, you look quite professional.”

She teasingly bows, thanking him with a laugh. John offers her a cup of coffee and she checks her watch. “Your sister will get here in about five minutes.”

“Oh, God, more noise in Baker Street. We already have plenty of those.” John nods to the direction of the bathroom, making both of them laugh among themselves. When their laughter dies down, John shifts into a much more serious expression, mixed with concern as he offers her a cup of tea. “How are you feeling?”

Jocelyn wavers a bit, remembering slight flashbacks to her time inside the freezer, still feeling how numbingly cold the tips of her fingers were, to the point where they ached. She swallows and forces out a small laugh. “‘Course,” she nods and accepts the tea from him.

He presses his lips together, feeling as if he shouldn’t bring up such an experience. He remembers that she has to leave Baker Street soon to find her own place and decides to talk about that instead. “You know, you’re always welcome to come over here.”

She mockingly pouts at him, walking over to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “John, save the speech when I really am moving out,” she teases him, making John push her in a joking manner.

Heavy footsteps from the stairs were heard by both, making Jocelyn go to the door and swing it open. She assumed it was Harry, but she is clearly mistaken. It revealed a young man wearing glasses and a formal attire. Jocelyn tilts her head in confusion, which is returned by a genuine smile. “Hello,” she offers half a smile, a bit cautious around strangers now.

“Hi, are you Dr. Jocelyn Fray?”

Jocelyn nervously fiddles with the doorknob. “Yes, sorry, do we know each other?”

The man suddenly realizes something that might have been a mistake. “Oh, I’m really sorry. Uh, Harry sent me, actually. She won’t make it and might be late to the conference. I thought she called you already.” He purses his lips and extends his arm in front of her. “I’m Dr. Jackson Palmer,” he introduces himself with a smile.

Jocelyn visibly flinches, and he notices of course, which only makes his arm falter in maintaining the handshake stance. She apologizes and goes to shake his hand, albeit nervous to do so. It’s very difficult to trust an outsider now that everything that happened has happened to her. Jocelyn doesn’t want to admit how the freezer situation clearly traumatized her for long-term, knowing how there may be many people out there who don’t seem to be dangerous on the outside, but they could probably be one of the deadliest persons she may have encountered.

John finally walks into the scene just as Jocelyn shakes his hand with a hesitant smile. “Jack?” He asks and lets out a chuckle.

The other man looks behind her and lights up upon seeing John Watson. “John.” He nods and the lady steps aside to let the other men greet each other. She feels more comfortable with the fact that John actually knows him. No one is ever too careful. Jocelyn is much more careful now after the freezer incident. Jack steps inside and shakes John’s hand, pulling him in for a short embrace. “I thought you went to Germany after graduation.” He told him before turning to Jocelyn. “This is Jack, I went to Uni with him,”

Jack smiles at her. “Is that the only title you could provide?” He muses at Dr. Watson.

John laughs, patting his back. “He’s also one of the best criminologists in England,” he points at Jocelyn with an amusing expression.

His words make her chuckle in a nervous way. “And he’s picking me up like Harry’s personal driver.” She sheepishly says, as if apologizing to him. “I really can just take a cab.” She tells Jack.

He brushes it off. “No, it’s fine, anything for Harry.” He told them both. “Although she didn’t mention how beautiful you are,” he cheekily smiles at her.

Jocelyn reddens and just laughs, shaking her head at him. “Wow, I mean—” She stammers, not sure how to respond to that, and only looks to John nervously. John raises his eyebrows at Jack, a bit taken aback by his sudden words. Jack was never one to flirt so openly, as John recalled.

Sherlock walks calmly into the living room, complete with his usual attire. When he sees the stranger, his eyebrows furrow in suspicion. He glances at him for a second, John already knows that his flatmate is starting to scan him with his usual deductive gaze. He prepares himself to apologize to Jack, but something happens. Sherlock glances between Jocelyn and Jack, frowning as if he realized something very upsetting. None of the others notice, of course, only John.

She clears her throat and grabs her coat from the couch. Jack gives the detective an odd look, a bit uncomfortable under his gaze. “Well, we better be off. I’ll see you guys later,” she nods at John, who holds up his hand as a wave and wishing her luck. Jack shakes John’s hand and nods at the other man who hasn’t uttered a word. John observes him for a second, realizing how Sherlock is still staring at the door in deep thought.

“Sherlock?” John tries snapping him out of it, but it doesn’t work. He calls him once again and he finally responds by looking at John with an annoyed look. “What’s the matter?”

“Lestrade hasn’t called, and I’ve checked my emails. I have no cases today and I might lose my mind.” He grits his teeth, not sure what he was feeling right at this second as he goes to sit at the table, opening his computer and typing into it. Probably on his website.

John slowly grins, realizing what just happened. “You sure that’s the only thing bothering you at the moment?”

Sherlock turns his upper body towards him, a cold expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Watson clears his throat awkwardly. “Jack is a nice man, I know him.” He tells Sherlock, probably to stall.

The consulting detective narrows his eyes, tilting his head. “Are you implying that I’m jealous?” The words left his mouth a bit slower than expected.

“Could be, yeah.” John grins at him, walking back to the kitchen to clean up and not letting Sherlock have the last word.

Sherlock scoffs. “Why would I be jealous?” He calls out, even when John is situated at the kitchen.  _Jealous?_  Why would he be? There’s nothing to jealous of an intelligent man in his early thirties, with a steady normal life and job, skilled with the guitar as well as piano, living in a penthouse surrounded by different breeds of dogs. A fashion-conscious man with different hair products and a very distinct aftershave, insinuating how rich yet humble he is. A man with his composure was certainly oozing with attraction towards the woman living with the detective and doctor. A man that should be with a woman like Jocelyn. Sherlock frowns, why would he ever be jealous?

“You’re the detective, figure it out yourself,” he hears John over the faucet running.

He huffs, clearly in denial. Of course, he’s not. He just didn’t like unwanted presence inside his flat. No, he needs to correct that statement. He didn’t like  _another_  unwanted presence inside his flat. As well as mixed emotions that he could never dissect. It never was to his advantage, not knowing how a particular emotion will function. He hated the way it somehow involved her again, it was nauseating to a degree and Sherlock only wanted it to stop. If only he could control certain aspects about the chemical changes in his body, maybe he could alter his emotions.

\--

Three weeks since their performance together, Jocelyn finally heard a callback.

“Really?” Shock was coursing through her body as she pressed the phone to her ear. Eyes wide and voice straining in her throat. “Okay, thank you so much.” She whispered and slowly put the phone down, still unable to process everything she just heard.

In front of her, Sherlock remained sitting upright, anticipating what she might say. His stare was so intense, but all she could do was staring off into space to repeat the woman’s words inside her head. It was seven in the morning, the two of them went to have coffee together before going to class. A few minutes ago while she was in the middle of sipping her burning hot coffee, her flip phone rang. Sherlock had both his hands inside his coat pockets, furrowing her brows at her. “What is it?”

Jocelyn opened her mouth and none came out. It took her half a minute to finally form words with her mouth. “I have a sophomore scholarship in New York,” she softly said as her lips took shape of a smile just before a sound of disbelief leaves her body. Sherlock watches as different expressions took over her pleasing face. “I could take performing arts, but they’re also offering other courses and I could major in Criminology or Pathology, the possibilities are endless, I—” she paused with a smile on her face.

Sherlock’s face softened. There was a sudden rush that coursed through him. Was that…  _pride?_  Jocelyn has described that feeling to him whenever he does something liberating but quite mediocre. Whenever she felt proud of him, was this how it was? Sherlock inhaled and the corners of his lips pull upwards. He never knew that Jocelyn has always wanted to go to New York and study there, so this was brand new information to be stored into his mind. Sherlock pressed his lips together and watched the woman be overwhelmed by happiness. He found himself smiling as well, just by tracing his eyes over her wide grin. “I do believe I’ve told you that you had nothing to worry about sophomore scholarships.”

“Yeah, yeah. Leave me be, with that  _‘I told you so’_  of yours.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh,  _God_ , I don’t think I could go through the day while knowing that I have schools waiting for me in New York.” She said, her voice a bit muffled by her hands over her mouth but Sherlock still managed to catch everything she said.

Then, the smile faded from his face. Jocelyn has to go to New York, she has to study there and achieve the career she longed to have. Sherlock has to remain in London, under the surveillance of his brother. Because as much as he hated having it, Sherlock knew he needed it. He needed to keep himself concealed, or else it would be very awful if he loses control. Sherlock felt another emotion, he can’t decipher what it is. All he knew was that he could feel his stomach twist at the thought of her going to New York. It was as if his body was drained all of a sudden and he  _hated_  the feeling. But, the way she looked overjoyed by the thought of travelling to a completely unfamiliar place, it sent him another rush that fought back the awful feeling he could not figure out. Suddenly, his eyes were full of life again and another smile painted itself onto his face. “I’m very happy for you.”

Jocelyn gratefully smiled, reaching over to slip her hands inside Sherlock’s. He was taken aback by the gesture, but he easily relaxed into it. He has been trying to get himself used to physical contact because she’s quite fond of being touchy all the time. He never minded, he liked everything she did. Reckless or not, she was absolutely endearing. She let out a sigh and traced her thumb over his hand. “Thank you, I couldn’t have gotten this without you.” She had a genuine smile that resulted for Sherlock to be loss of breath for a split second.

Sherlock gave her a puzzled expression. “I did not play the piano for you.”

She let out a short laugh and looked down at their hands. “You performed with me, you helped me with many things, Sherl. I’ll forever be so thankful to you.” Her voice felt like liquid gold and Sherlock can’t believe he’s thinking of different poetic verses he could relate to everything she is.

He slowly let out a breath and covered his larger hands on hers, feeling her soft skin. How can someone be so drawn to a person? Sherlock couldn’t explain the feeling, but he doesn’t think that he should ever. The last thing he ever wanted was to scare her off by saying something he didn’t quite understand yet. “I don’t think there is a need to express such gratitude for something you clearly deserved more of.” Sherlock muttered. His hands were holding hers, and it felt quite odd but pleasing. He never initiated handholding, only she does. And whenever it happens, Sherlock only welcomes it. Although, from time to time, he found himself asking a question;  _is this feeling common between friends?_

She felt warmer now, having Sherlock’s hands on hers. It was comfortable, and she found herself not wanting to let go. “I know, but I still wanted you to know that I’m thankful of having you,” she said without thinking. “I mean, I’m thankful of having you as my friend.” She looked down, and Sherlock wasn’t aware of the easy blush that appeared on her face. She almost sighed aloud, now was not the time to fawn over a boy.

Sherlock nodded. “I do believe that the feeling is mutual.”

Jocelyn hummed, her hand slipping out to retrieve her cup and hide her pinkish face from his line of sight. His other hand felt so cold without hers, but the other still held her other hand. It was more enjoyable than he initially thought. Sherlock still noticed the hue on her face and it made him frown. The cup of coffee wasn’t that hot to make her face appear that way, so it was due to embarrassment then. When was she embarrassed? He couldn’t recall.

He spent the next few hours thinking of that, as well as analyzing each emotion he felt during their cup of coffee.

\--

“My  _God_ , you were amazing.” Harry Watson gives her a tight hug, clearly proud of her.

Jocelyn is grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you, Harry. I couldn’t have done it without you.” It was true, she wouldn’t be a speaker here at all if Harry hadn’t pushed it and showed everyone just how brilliant she is. It wasn’t everyday for everyone to recognize a woman’s intelligence in the field of science.

Many people came to congratulate her and compliment her share of the cases that she’s been involved in. Many people were fascinated and future forensic scientists are even more inspired to pursue their dreams. Jocelyn felt absolutely loved. Her career has been her safe space and it always will be. She can’t think of anything else that she’d rather do in her life.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Now, people know how great you are. I mean, you’re one of the smartest people in the room.” She nudges her shoulder with a smile.

“I wouldn’t say that. Dr. Tim McGregor is here, Dr. Jane Lancaster, Dr. Owen Cassidy—”

“Those names don’t matter.” Harry shakes her head. “Right now, it’s Dr. Jocelyn Fray.” She assures her, only making her grin and nod. Jocelyn feels proud of herself for coming this far. All the hard work has paid off and now she’s one of the most successful forensic scientists in this room right now.

“Jocelyn, hi.” She hears a small voice from behind her and so she turns to meet the person. She grins at the sight of Dr. Hooper, going over to shake her hand.

“Hey,” she greets. “It’s great to see you,”

Molly smiles at her. “You were astounding. I liked the case with the mannequin, that was genius.” She compliments, hands fiddling with one another as if she was anxious.

Jocelyn nods at her, thanking the forensic pathologist. “Oh, by the way, this is Dr. Harry Watson, John’s sister.” She introduces her companion. “Harry, this is Dr. Molly Hooper, she works at St. Barts as a Forensic Pathologist.”

They both smile at each other as they shook hands. “St. Barts, huh? John and I used to work there. I work in New York now, though, but I heard that St. Barts is still up and good?” Harry teases and makes the other two laugh a bit.

Molly glances back at Jocelyn. “So, uh, how’s Sherlock?” she sheepishly asks her.

The other two women looked at one another, and Jocelyn is clueless on what to say. She musters a polite expression on her face. “He’s fine. I’m quite sure.”

“Good, that’s great,” she nods. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I heard from John, and I never thought Jim would be capable of doing what he did.” She frowns, and Jocelyn only tries avoiding her eyes. Molly immediately notices this and is visibly anxious, not wanting to make Jocelyn uncomfortable. “I broke up with him shortly after the incident at the lab, no thanks to Sherlock,” she makes Jocelyn chuckle. “Thank you, by the way, for defending me at the time.”

“Don’t mention it, he was way over the line.”

Molly is called over by someone and she excuses herself politely. “So, she has a crush on this flatmate of John’s?”

“Obvious?”

“ _Too_ obvious.” Harry winks at Jocelyn. “She has the same job as you do, then?”

Jocelyn chuckles. “I’m more of an Analyst than a Pathologist, nowadays.”

“I’m sure,” they both laugh.

Jocelyn looks around and immediately notices a familiar man walking up to her. She offers Jack a smile, in which he returns. When they both arrived at the venue using his car, Harry was thrilled over how they got along so quickly. Dr. Palmer was a criminologist and pathologist, which is one of the reasons how they had so much to talk about on the way here. “You were amazing up there. My favorite case was with the vase water. I mean, I never would have thought of using that as evidence.” He has admiration written all over his face and appeared to be very excited. “I loved the other cases as well, but that one was just brilliant.”

“Thank you,” she nods.

Harry looks between them and lets out a small laugh. “Well, I have to talk to Dr. Anderson over there. Maybe gossip,” she whispers the last bit to Jocelyn, making her chuckle and watch her leave.

“Harry mentioned that you’ll be relocating here in London?” He stars up a conversation and she hums in agreement. “Would it be intruding if I ask why?” Now that Jocelyn thought about it, this might be the first time someone asked her why here and why now.

“Not at all, but oh,” she coos, shrugging. “New York is lovely and everything. I enjoyed working there, but…” she pauses. “It wasn’t exactly my home.” She glances at him, seeing how he watches her with interest. “This is my home, this is where I belong.” An absentminded smile fills her face and the sight was very contagious that it made him do so as well. “Enough about me, John mentioned something about Germany?”

“My mother lived there, actually. I moved there right after I graduated and worked to teach criminology.” He nods. “I came back to London because, well,” he exhaled. “She passed away years ago.”

She frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he gives her a smile. “She’s good now. Resting.”

Jocelyn smiles and nods, sighing with a dream on her lips as she glanced around the room to watch people talk and present their cases to one another. “Both of our mothers are resting well,” she tells him.

The man glances down at her, realizing what she means and presses his lips together. “Would it be so sudden if I ask you out?”

Jocelyn is taken off guard, looking at Jack with surprise. “What?”

Dr. Palmer only chuckles at her surprise. “A date, Jocelyn. Would you like to go on a date with me?” He asks with sincerity in his eyes.

She isn’t sure what to answer. Even after the casual flirting the past few hours, the conversation with Harry about Jack being a well-respected man with a good reputation, his visible physical appearance and the way he spoke to and treated her; something held her back from saying yes. She stammers and looks down at her feet. “Uh,” she mutters under her breath.

His smile slowly fades away, shaking his head. “Or not, if I’m overstepping,”

“No,” she quickly says, but catches on as she lets out a sigh. “I mean, no, you’re not overstepping. No.” She shakes her head, trying to think of the right words to say. “It’s just that we just met and I… a lot happened to me in the past few days, and it’s very difficult to just go outside with a person I know almost nothing about,” she shoots him an apologetic expression.

“We can fix that,” he tries to smile at her.

Jocelyn purses her lips. “I’m sorry, I can’t right now.”

Jack immediately nodded, looking confident but it does appear as if he is hurt. “That’s fine, I totally get it.”

She frowns. “I’m very sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he lets out a chuckle. “I’ve just never been rejected by a woman before.” He grins widely.

His teasing tone only brought back a small laugh from her, which is quite enough for him. Jocelyn didn’t exactly expect him to ask her all of a sudden. They really did just met, but then again, that  _is_ the point of going on a date, to get to know them better. She doesn’t exactly remember the last time she went on a date. Maybe a year ago, if she’s being quite honest. She mostly just turns away people who ask, not really sure why.

A few hours later, Harry and Jocelyn both go back to Baker Street, in which Harry complains about being small and dusty. Not to Mrs. Hudson, of course, Harry was a dear to Hudders. She is actually complaining about John’s flat itself.

When Harry finally had tea, she calms down as sets herself by the couch, cringing upon seeing nicotine patches scattered everywhere. John walks in with his phone in hand. “How was it?”

“Oh, it was great. You should’ve been there.” Harry smiles at her brother. “Jocelyn was on fire.”

“Oh, stop it. I’ve had enough compliments for the day. It does wonders to my ego.” She shakes her head at both of them. “How come you’re alone here, John?”

“Sherlock’s at St. Barts for an experiment. We haven’t had a client in a while, or a case he’s interested in. He has a scale, actually.”

“Right, yeah. Anything less than a seven is not worth it,” Jocelyn nods, while John glances at her with raised eyebrows. The fact that she knows about Sherlock’s little scale only says how long he’s been using it.

Harry clears her throat. “Right, I have to be back in New York by this afternoon. Work,” she tells them both and leaves Jocelyn frowning.

“So soon?” John asks her, crossing his arms.

“Duty calls.” She shrugs and stands up, going to her brother to give him a warm embrace. “I need to pack,” she tells him, kissing Jocelyn’s cheek and saying goodbye.

John and Jocelyn were left alone in the flat, and the forensic analyst just sits down on one of the armchairs. “I’m going to miss her, you know?”

“Well, I’ve lasted years without her, I think you can manage,” John flashes a grin, making her laugh to herself.

She was about to respond, but her phone rings. Jocelyn goes to the table to pick it up, a bit relieved to read a quite familiar name. She holds the phone up to her ear and sighs. “Hi, Mycroft,”

“Miss Fray, I’ve heard you did quite impressively during the event. Many people are now talking about you and your ever-blooming work. Well done.” She hears his sincerity through the phone. She rolls her eyes in an amused way, realizing how Mycroft will never stop talking like a man from the Victorian era. “I suppose you’d be surprised about the upcoming pages of the newspaper,”

Her eyes widen, hand traveling to her mouth in surprise. “No,”

It was almost as if she could hear the tiny smile on Mycroft’s face. “Oh, yes. I have a great feeling that this conference will go nationwide. Well done, Miss Fray.”

Jocelyn smiles heartily, the hand covering her mouth slowly went to her chest to feel the slowly increasing heart rate. “Thank you.”

“I’ve called because I’ve found several apartments for you to look at, ones that are most affordable for you. I will send you photos of the interior right about now and you can tell me which one you like most. I’ll have a car take you there.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Wow, I thought you were just going to pick an apartment for me. You know, you don’t have to do any of this.”

“That’s true, I don’t.” He calmly says, just before her phone beeps to indicate a new email. “Scotland Yard would be very well in luck to have you, Jocelyn. I hope to hear from you soon.”

“But, I—” She’s cut off by Mycroft hanging up, which makes her frown at her phone, but her face instantly lights up upon seeing pictures of different apartments. She looks towards John with a clueless expression and he only gives her a shrug before chuckling to himself. Who knew Mycroft could be so helpful?

For the next few weeks, Jocelyn has finally started working for Scotland Yard. It was a delight to everyone, after hearing so much about her work. The head of Scotland Yard offered to make her in charge of the Forensics Department, but she declined. She wanted to work for it, not just because of her previous works elsewhere. Plus, she did not want to offend long-time employees in Scotland Yard. Her first day was great, everyone welcomed her and she learned quite a lot from different Forensic Scientists from Scotland Yard. Although, Anderson can be confusing sometimes.

She successfully moved out of Baker Street just a few days before her first day and settled down at a nice little apartment for herself, biggest thanks to Mycroft for finding her one. Everything he found were quite her style, it was great. Her new apartment felt like home, and she was happy knowing that she lives in London now.

On the other hand, Sherlock was ecstatic that it was just now him and John in 221B Baker Street. He and John kept solving cases and although he sees Jocelyn in Scotland Yard sometimes, he was glad that she no longer resides in his home. John noticed this, of course. It made him feel quite upset, but he knew there was no point in understanding him. It’s Sherlock, who knows what he actually was feeling.

Ever since Jocelyn left the flat, the consulting detective hasn’t seen her mind palace version. It was a relief for him, not hearing her voice in his head at random times. He has never felt more pleased. Currently, Sherlock is wearing his blue dressing gown while drinking a cup of coffee. John is sat on a chair at the opposite side of the table, a laptop open in front of him. Sherlock flips a page of his newspaper. “What are you typing?”

“Blog.”

“About?”

“Us.”

Sherlock hums. “You mean me.”

“Why?”

He sucks in a sharp breath and clears his throat. “Well, you’re typing a lot.” He mutters as John looks up at him with an annoyed expression. The doorbell rings and Sherlock felt the sudden adrenaline of a new client.

Times like this, he wonders why the number of clients he’s receiving is increasing in a rapid rate. John is somewhat glad that Jocelyn has found her own place since having clients walk in and out of the flat can be a lot to handle. Sherlock and John went through many clients for the next few weeks, but only finding only a few good ones.

Sherlock looks over his friend’s shoulder, a concentrated expression on his face. “ _‘The Geek Interpreter’_ , what is that?” He asks John with a frown, eyes shifting from side to side to read the content of the blog entry.

“It’s the title.”

“What does it need a title for?” He huffs, but John only smiles at him before continuing with his typing.

Moving onto another case, Sherlock crouches down to examine a corpse. “Do people even read your blog?”

“Yes, where do you think our clients come from?”

Sherlock is looking through his magnifier, observing the specks on the blonde woman. “I have a website.” He says as a matter of fact.

John sighs. “In which you enumerate two hundred different types of tobacco ash,” he says, just as Sherlock frowns and stands upright. “Nobody is reading your website.” His words probably offended Sherlock enough to make the man walk out. Lestrade stood there dumbfounded, but proceeds with a bit of laughter while John cracks a grin.

When they go home, John writes the blog for the blond woman with the speckles on her face. Mrs. Hudson finally got Sherlock to eat some of her biscuits, and he walks around the house in his dressing gown while carrying an open newspaper. He catches a glimpse of what John was typing and almost groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake;  _The Speckled Blonde_?” He reads the title before walking off, quite annoyed.

Another case later, Sherlock is in the middle of a separate experiment, wearing gloves and laboratory glasses. He reads what John is blogging and feels frustrated. “No, no, no, don’t mention the unsolved ones” He is completely repulsed.

“People want to know you’re human,” John chuckles.

“Why?”

“Because they’re interested.”

Sherlock tilts his head and dismisses the idea. “No, they aren’t.” He snaps his head towards John. “Why are they?” He asks, completely disregarding his initial idea.

Dr. Watson grins at his laptop screen. “Hm, look at that. One thousand eight hundred and eighty-five. This blog has nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours;  _this_  is your living, Sherlock.” He proudly mentions. “Not two hundred different types of tobacco ash.”

The consulting detective silences, not sure how to respond. A rare event. “Two hundred and forty-three.”

Soon after, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson became internet sensations all across the nation. They were on the papers, the news; everywhere. Almost everyone knew who they were, and Sherlock very much dislikes the feeling of it. The mere thought of people knowing who he is and what he does, it was unsettling.

“You know, this is a tiny bit humiliating.” John says through the computer just as Holmes walks out of his room wrapped in his sheets as if he just woke up. And he was, he is still yawning.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.” Sherlock mutters, taking the laptop and walking himself to the living room. “Show me to the stream.”

“You know, I don’t mean for you.” John sarcastically says, but obliges and shows him the stream.

“Look, this is a six. I don’t leave the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed.” He complains. “Now, show me the grass.”

“When did we agree that?” John crouches down and shows him the grass.

Sherlock shifts in his seat. “We agreed on it yesterday. Stop!” He loudly tells him and makes his blogger freeze. “Now, closer.”

But, John shifts the camera to his face. “I wasn’t even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin.”

“Wasn’t my fault you weren’t listening.” He sighs, a bit exasperated just before the doorbell rings. He turns around and pulls an annoyed expression, one he uses quite often and yells, “Shut up!”

“Do you just carry on talking when I’m away?” John encounters, wondering why his flatmate didn’t just phone someone to have anyone listen in. It would be most amusing to see Sherlock call up Jocelyn in a desperate attempt to speak to someone. As Sherlock once said, it would be better if someone were there while he was talking. Otherwise, he’d look like a complete idiot.

He blinks at John. “I don’t know, how often are you away?”

The detective doesn’t usually act this way and John wasn’t quite sure if this had something to do with Jocelyn finally leaving Baker Street. Sherlock proceeds with the case and carried on trying to impress the other detective handling the case. It was difficult to solve cases through computer, but maybe for Sherlock, it was an everyday thing.

That was when two men entered his flat with Mrs. Hudson looking very nervous. He looked up at them with confusion, listening to how one of them tells the other to grab some clothes for the consulting detective. After a few minutes, Sherlock figured out exactly where he was going. Meanwhile, John loses contact with him and was incredibly caught off guard by how a man came up to him, informing the doctor that the helicopter was for him.

Much later, a confused John Watson walks through the corridors of the very heart of England. He has no idea why he is inside Buckingham Palace, and so he strides into a room, seeing Sherlock, still wrapped in his bed sheets while sitting on the very expensive sofa. John gestures at the palace around him, as if to ask Sherlock what they were expected to do here, to which Sherlock replies with a shake of his head.

John nods and continues walking, taking a seat next to Sherlock. He glances around for a bit and realizes that Sherlock Holmes isn’t wearing any pants. “You wearing any pants?”

“No.” Sherlock immediately says.

“Okay.” His companion nods, not sure how to respond to that now.

The consulting detective slowly glances at his friend and John does the same, making both of them break into a fit of laughter. “At Buckingham Palace.” John says in disbelief. “I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.” He jokes, making Sherlock chuckle. Watson clears his throat. “What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Here to see the Queen?”

As if on cue, Sherlock sees his brother walk into the room at the corner of his eye. This serves as a perfect opportunity to make his friend laugh. It’s what friends do, right? “Oh, apparently yes.” He claims, just before John sees Mycroft and couldn’t help the loud laugh he makes. The sight of him laughing also made Sherlock lowly chuckle, all while Mycroft glares at both of them.

The eldest Holmes. “Just once, can you two behave like grownups?”

“He solves crimes while I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn’t hold on too much hope.” John states.

Sherlock’s expression was now serious at the presence of his brother. “I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft.”

“What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report, a bit obvious, surely?” Mycroft easily says, while John furrows his eyebrows. Dr. Watson may not be the most idiotic man in the world, but he’s not as brilliant as the other two men in the room are. So it was no surprise that John did not know which part of that case was ‘obvious’.

“Transparent.”

“Time to move on, then.” Mycroft takes Sherlock’s pile of folded clothes. Sherlock only glances at it in a bored manner, to which his older brother frustratingly sighs at. “We are in Buckingham Palace—the very  _heart_  of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.” His voice was still calm, despite his eyes.

“What for?” his younger brother shrugs.

“Your client.”

“And my client is?” He asks while getting on his feet, chin tilting upwards. He somewhat looked graceful, minus the bed sheets wrapping around his naked body at the moment.

“Illustrious, in the extreme.” A man walks out from the hallways John came from. “And remaining, I have to inform you; entirely anonymous.” He grins at Mycroft, greeting him by shaking his hand.

Sherlock observed how they interacted, not even caring of his appearance while Mycroft apologizes to the man for his brother. Small talk happens, and the detective only wants them to go straight to the point as to why they have brought him to the Palace. Sherlock begins to refuse the case even before it was explained, only because the client is anonymous. John sighs, knowing that this will not end well. The two brothers have a bickering, as usual, and it ends with Sherlock finally clothing himself and having tea with the rest of them.

Mycroft finally explains the nature of the case being given to him. “This is a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust.”

John feels confused. “You don’t trust your own secret service?”

“Naturally not, they all spy on people for money.” The eldest Holmes comments, briefly recalling the time he tried convincing John to spy on Sherlock, to which the doctor smiles at a bit.

“I do believe we have a timetable?”

Mycroft nods. “Yes, of course.” He opens a suitcase from next to him and takes out a few files. “What do you know about this woman?” He gives Sherlock a photo.

The youngest Holmes takes it upon his hands and glances over the photo, going through his mind palace to find any face that could match the woman’s. When he found none, he let out a short breath. “Nothing whatsoever.”

“Then you should be paying more attention.” Mycroft slyly grins at him, almost as if he knew that his brother would know so little about her. “She’s been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist, by having an affair with both participants separately.” He finishes.

Sherlock is not even impressed by her antics, as John sips his tea. “You know I don’t concern myself with trivia. Who is she?” He coolly asks.

“Irene Adler. Professionally known as The Woman.” Mycroft tells both of them.

“Professionally?” John queries.

Mycroft prepares himself. “There are many names for what she does. She prefers, ‘dominatrix’.”

The consulting detective stares intensely at her photo. “Dominatrix.” The word leaves his mouth so softly, but so unfamiliar.

Mycroft blinks, smiling a bit as if he was amused by his brother’s confusion. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex.” He calmly says.

Sherlock snaps his head towards his brother, a bit incredulous. “Sex doesn’t alarm me.” He claims.

His older brother scoffs softly at him, a mocking smile on his face. “How would you know?”

Those words made Sherlock’s face relax in realization. Then, his mind did the most repulsive thing at the wrong place and wrong time. He hears a voice in his head saying,  _Mycroft doesn’t always know everything, Sherl._

Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes for a brief moment, not wanting this to happen right now, while he’s been doing so well avoiding her. Mycroft notices this, naturally, but decides not to mention it right now. John glances at Sherlock after Mycroft asked him the rhetorical question. It would be odd to think of Sherlock doing a very human and natural act, if you ask John. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock with anyone. Although, Jocelyn can be an exception. John believes that Sherlock was much different during University, that’s why he held onto.

“She provides, shall we say recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it.” He continues, opening the suitcase once again. “These are all from her website.” He tells both of them, handing Sherlock multiple photos.

He skims through them, flipping the pictures page by page. “And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs.”

“You’re very quick, Mr. Holmes.” Compliments by the other man sitting next to Mycroft.

Sherlock almost glares at him. “Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?”

The man hesitates, but answers him very cryptic. “A person of significance to my employer. “We’d prefer not to say anything more at this time.”

“You can’t tell us anything?” John asks.

Mycroft sighs, crossing his legs. “I can tell you it’s a young person.” He pauses. “A young  _female_  person.”

Sherlock smirks and finally knows whom they were talking about, seeing how the man gulps nervously. He suggested paying her full, but then his brother tells him that Miss Adler isn’t after any money. That she had been in contact to say that the photographs exist and Sherlock is even more intrigued. Of course, it wouldn’t be Sherlock if he doesn’t do something to amaze a stranger. He impresses him by deducing the smoking habit of his employer and indeed, the man was amazed.

A few minutes later, Sherlock finally walks out of the palace with John, revealing the tiny object he swindled from the palace just to make his friend laugh.

Meanwhile, Jocelyn is in the middle of another case as well. She holds her camera as she crouches down to take photos of the victim lying on the ground just near the lake. She’s on forensics for a different detective today, things are rather very busy. Jocelyn stands up and carefully walks around the body to take more photos when the DI handling the case comes near her. “Cause of death?”

Jocelyn pulls herself on her feet and clears her throat. “He was hit at the back of the head by a solid object. Killer might have done it really fast, not sure yet. I’m working on it.” She sighs out. “The witness said that he didn’t see the actual thing, just the part of the victim standing while facing that way.” She nods in front of her.

He hums, scratching his chin. “Right, I’ll take it from here. You go take what you need and go back to the precinct to have them analyzed.”

Jocelyn smiles at him and goes to ride with Sergeant Sally Donovan, who she heard was a pain in the arse. She takes the passenger’s seat as Donovan drives both of them back to Scotland Yard. “So you used to live with Sherlock Holmes, huh?” Sally begins a small talk just as Jocelyn is slipping off her gloves and shifting the box of possible evidences under the seat.

She is caught off guard by the question, a bit startled by the question. “What?”

Sally glances at her before shifting her eyes back to the road. “Sherlock and John, you lived with them, right?”

Jocelyn lets out a breath of relief and just let out an awkward laugh. She almost thought that Donovan found out about something entirely different. “Yes, I stayed with them when I first got here.”

Donovan smiles a bit, almost genuine. “That would have been very interesting.”

Jocelyn chuckles, shaking her head. “Depends on your definition of interesting. John and Sherlock are a handful.”

“Especially Sherlock, huh? He’s a bit of a freak.” Sally laughs a bit, as if she hadn’t just downed someone’s character.

Her words make Jocelyn’s smile falter. She is aware of how others perceive Sherlock, but to hear it directly, it felt odd. Jocelyn has never looked at Sherlock and thought he was some kind of freak. Maybe he can be a bit odd, but who isn’t in this world? It all comes down to how people define odd. If someone were to ask Jocelyn if Sherlock was a freak, her answer would always be the same; if Sherlock is a freak for being the genius he is, would you rather be stupidly normal?

Jocelyn clears her throat. “Well, I wouldn’t describe him as a freak. He’s just misunderstood, that’s all.” She simply says, to which Sally snorts at.

“Did he threaten you to say that or something?” She jokes, but it didn’t exactly feel funny.

The Forensic Scientist is now frowning. “No, he doesn’t need to. That’s really how I look at him.”

“Oh, God,” Sally humors, mocking a soft groan. “Don’t tell me you got the hots for him?”

The way Sally said  _‘him’_ in a disgusted manner was unsettling for the other woman. “Hots? No, of course not.” Jocelyn is mortified, but deep down, she worries. “I just choose to see the good in him instead of the aspects that can be improved.”

Sally pulls over in the parking lot of Scotland Yard. “Well, good luck with looking at a few of that good.” She drags the joke on and exits the car.

She frowns and lets out a sigh, taking her things and moving them to the little lab that she has in the Forensic Services of the Met. Jocelyn wonders if everyone in the Yard views Sherlock the same way as Sally does. Hopefully Lestrade is an exception, she can see how much Sherlock trusts the man. Jocelyn decides to focus on her work, just playing soft music in her lab while she hums along. Most of the time, she prefers to be alone while working, it gave her mush more space to pay attention to what she was doing. This was why the head of the Yard let her have her time quite often.

While viewing a substance under the microscope, her phone rings in her pocket. Jocelyn pauses to fish out her phone, reading the caller ID  and grinning upon seeing John’s name. It was nice, John still keeps in touch with her even after she left Baker Street and settled in a much nearer place to the Yard.

She answers the phone and holds the object to her ear. “Hey, John. What’s up?”

“I didn’t know you were handling forensics for the Hiker case.” She hears him laugh. “I just left the scene this morning.”

Jocelyn coos. “Really? The two of you were there before I was, probably. We’re keeping this case under wraps for a bit.”

“Oh, no. It was just me. Sherlock was back home, refuses to leave to flat for this one. And good luck with keeping the case in for a bit, we get followed from time to time now.”

“Oh, right, you two are famous now.” That makes her smile. “Probably because he thought the case is mediocre for him. Which is fine. Did he solve it then?”

“Apparently he did. Mycroft as well.”

Jocelyn smiles in a confused manner. “Mycroft? You were with Mycroft?”

There is static on the other end of the line as John trails off. “Well, Sherlock was driven to the palace while I was transported by a helicopter.”

She takes a moment to digest his words. ‘The palace? Buckingham Palace?” Her voice is in disbelief.

John laughs a bit at her reaction. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Why not? Is it government confidential?” She teases.

“Probably. Heard of Irene Adler?” John nonchalantly asks, to which Jocelyn fiddles with her fingers.

She thought of it for a moment. “No, not exactly. Is she on the news or?”

Jocelyn can practically hear the grin on his face. “I’ll explain to you later. Come over when you can, we’ll probably be home after you’re done working. Sherlock and I are going to see this Adler woman.”

“It’s a date then.” She jokes, making him laugh a bit. “Good luck.” She adds, and John tells her goodbye. Jocelyn believes that she hears Sherlock’s voice in the background just as John hangs up.

She isn’t quite sure why she feels differently whenever Sherlock or anything related to him, is being waved around in front of her. They haven’t really talked properly since the freezer incident. Maybe a brief exchange of words whenever he was on a case from Lestrade. But that was it, there are no other outside conversations. There’s always a professional atmosphere around the two of them, unlike with John. Dr. Watson calls her almost every day, and she doesn’t mind. In fact, she loves speaking to him and seeing him every once in a while. With Sherlock, though, Jocelyn isn’t quite sure how to speak to him.

When John hung up, he hears Sherlock rummaging through his things and sighs. “What are you doing?”

“Going into battle, John. Need the right armor.” He exclaims, showing how he put on a neon green traffic enforcer outfit. John cringes, and Sherlock decides that it isn’t working. Soon after, the doctor finds himself standing in an alley, a bit confused since his companion said that they were going to Irene Adler’s address.

“We here?”

“Two streets away, but this will do.” Sherlock coolly, and a clueless John wonders why his friend took off his scarf.

John looks around for a second. “For what?”

“Punch me in the face.” Sherlock gestures to the side of his face, and John only blinks at him.

It took a moment for his words to register themselves in his head. “Punch you?”

Sherlock furrows his brows. “Yes, in the face. Didn’t you hear me?”

“I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.”

“Oh for  _God’s_ sake.” Sherlock mutters and swings a punch at his friend. John is so done with him, he can’t even explain it.

Turns out, the little brawl they had in that alleyway was part of Sherlock’s master plan to get inside Irene Adler’s place. Of course, pretending to be an attacked individual must look very easy for Sherlock since they were successful in doing so.

“Hello, sorry to know that you’ve been hurt,” Sherlock hears a feminine voice from the hallway, and he quickly pretends to stop the bleeding from the cut on his face. “I don’ think Kate caught your name.” Her gentle tone is quite alluring for many men, but Sherlock remains unfazed.

Until he looks to his left, though. He forgets what he is saying as his lips part in surprise. No doubt, that this is the Adler woman his brother was talking about, she looks exactly as she did in the photographs he showed. Minus one tiny detail, though; her clothing.

Sherlock isn’t sure how long he remained quiet. Irene smiles at how speechless he appeared, mistaking it for astonishment upon her body. “Oh, it’s always difficult to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright, isn’t it?” She calmly walks up to him, hips swaying in a discreet manner. “Well, there, now.” She takes a seat on his lap, making Sherlock lean back on his seat, eyes focused on her face. “We’ve both defrocked, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” She smirks at him.

His facial expression remains blank, except for the split second he looked surprised upon seeing her disrobed body. “Miss Adler, I presume?” He asks, noticing the way her hair is done in an elegant manner.

She tilts her head. “Look at those cheekbones, I could cut myself slapping that face,” she pauses. “Would you like me to try?” She seductively says before narrowing her eyes at him and stretching Sherlock’s clerical collar before biting into it. In Sherlock’s mind,  _do humans really enjoy this sort of torture?_

Sherlock is trying his best to read her, but nothing seems to come to mind. He isn’t sure if he’s finding it difficult to deduce her without anything else that can give him hints, or if he’s distracted by the amount of skin, he’s witnessing. Or maybe, his instincts made him compare her with someone else inside his head.

He hears John’s voice before the man even walks into the room. “Right, this should do it.” He stops as soon as he sees a naked woman on Sherlock’s lap, not sure how to respond. John thinks for about a second, how he just went to the kitchen to get the first aid kit, and then he comes back to Sherlock with a woman on his lap. Quite bizarre. “I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

The consulting detective has an annoyed look on his face and somewhat felt relief upon feeling the woman stand from his lap and take a seat on the sofa adjacent to his. “Please, sit down. Or if you’d like some tea, I can call the maid.”

“I had some in the palace.” Sherlock fills the gap.

“I know.”

“Clearly.” He lets her know that he’s quite aware on the way Miss Adler has been keeping track of him.

John notices the way Sherlock is looking at Irene in an intense way, he almost feels uncomfortable. “I had tea, too, in the palace. If anyone is interested.” He cuts in, but it seems as if this is a war between Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler.

Sherlock feels exasperated and confused, not because of how she appears, but because it seems as though he cannot read her the same way he reads endless of people. He glances at John, and immediately has hundreds of deductions;  _two day shirt, electric razor, evening date with a woman—although, Sherlock isn’t sure who it is, hasn’t phoned Harry Watson, new toothbrush, night out with Mike Stamford,_ and many more. He slowly cranes his neck towards Miss Adler, and nothing comes to mind. This is not how his day is supposed to be. He frowns, conflicted as he observes her.

“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.” She grins.

To this, Sherlock pulls a questioning face. “You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”

She hums. “I think you’re damaged, delusional, and believe in higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.” Irene counters, making the detective glare at her. She slowly leans down, her chest is merely covered by her small arms in a lazy way. “And somebody loves you, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.” She glances at John.

The doctor dryly laughs, cutting it short. “Can you put something on, please? Napkin?”

“Why?” Her natural sultry voice is low. “Are you feeling exposed?”

“Clearly, John knows where to look.” Sherlock pulls himself on his feet, taking his coat and she follows suit.

“Oh, I think he knows exactly where.” She stands in front of John, who tries his best not to look away from her face and let his eyes wander down. It’s quite distracting. “Not sure about you,” Irene turns to Sherlock, who easily gives her his coat.

He remains cold. “If I wanted to look at naked women, I’d borrow John’s laptop.”

“You do borrow my laptop.” John interjects quickly.

“I confiscate it,” Sherlock denies, hands folding behind his back, not letting his eyes go anywhere else except on their faces.

“Well, never mind. We’ve got better things to talk about—now, tell me. I need to know, how was it done?” She asks after wrapping herself up with Sherlock’s coat and taking a seat back to where Sherlock was originally sitting.

“What?”

“The hiker with the bashed in head,” she easily says, making John snap his head towards Sherlock and realizing how he’s just as confused as he is.

“That’s… not why I’m here,” Sherlock trails off.

“No, no, you’re here for the photographs, but that’s never going to happen. Since we’re here chatting anyway—”

“That story hasn’t been on the news yet, how do you know about it?”

“I know one of the policemen, well, I know what he likes.” She tells them.

The Art of Seduction, Sherlock thinks to himself. Some people are very weak and pathetic to fall for the simple acts of seduction, Sherlock finds it very disappointing how humans are easily tricked much less by a possible criminal such as Miss Adler in front of him.

 _Oh, Sherlock. The Art of Seduction was something you were quite keen on back in the day. Don’t you remember?_ He almost flinched at the voice, knowing that many things are triggering his head right now. They’re all coming back all at once and he finds himself unable to function for a split second.

Sherlock watches the way John takes a seat next to Irene. “And you like policemen?”

“I like detective stories,  _and_ detectives.” She informs him, and John cracks a smile. “Brainy is the new sexy,”

Then, Sherlock immediately realizes that he is still inside the room. He says something that sounds like the merging of multiple words, making him sound as if he’s stammering. John and Irene’s attention were caught, glancing back at the consulting detective as he musters enough of his sanity to list off the things he gathered from the hiker’s case.

“How was he killed?”

Sherlock gives her a look. “He wasn’t.”

Both persons in the room were surprised. “You don’t think it was murder?”

“I  _know_  it wasn’t.”

“How?”

“The same way I know that the victim was an excellent sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel, and that the photographs I’m looking for are in this room.” Sherlock quickly told her, making her not catch what he had just said at the end.

She has quite a concentrated expression on her face. “Okay, but how?”

“So, they are in this room? Thank you.” Sherlock nods at her, glancing at John. “Man the door, John. Let no one in.” He says, and his friend obliged almost immediately.

Irene watches the doctor leave, a bit confused and nervous, legs uncrossing. “Two men, alone in the countryside, several yards apart, and one car.”

“Oh, I-I thought you were looking for the photos now,” she looks around a bit, unsure what to do. Sherlock feels accomplished, knowing that he has her cornered.

“No, looking takes ages. I’m just going to find them. But you’re moderately clever, and we have several minutes. So let’s pass the time.” Sherlock tells her, briefly complimenting the woman at least to have her hooked. She smiles, wondering if she’s one of the few people who had received compliments from the great Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock turns to her. “Two men, a car, nobody else. Driver’s fixing his engine, getting nowhere. And the hiker’s taking a moment looking at the sky. Watching the birds? Any moment now, something’s going to happen; what?”

Irene bites her lip. “The hiker’s going to die.”

“No, that’s the result. What’s going to happen?”

She pauses. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, well, try to.”

“Why?”

 _Because you want her to take someone else’s place, right?_ Sherlock shakes his head, pushing the voice back. “Because you catered in whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think; it’s the new sexy.” He repeats her words from earlier, hinting to her that she has piqued his interest.

“The car is going to backfire.” She answers.

“There’s going to be a loud noise,” he continues her statement.

She only gives a shrug. “So what?”

“Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything, for instance,” he pauses just before the alarm goes off. Sherlock knows that John has set it off just outside. Irene immediately looks at the mirror from behind Sherlock, making him follow her gaze. “Thank you. When hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.”  _Or a freezer._ For God’s sake. He cups for any sort of lever or button, and immediately presses it, making the mirror slide upwards and reveals a safe with a pass code. He turns to her. “Really hope you don’t have a baby in here.”

He watches how a worried look washes over her face, looking back at the safe. “Alright, John. You can turn it off now.” When his friend doesn’t respond, he raises his voice as he repeats himself, and the doctor asked for a moment. He stares at the digits for a second, humming. “You should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit is always on the first key used. That’s quite clearly a three, but after that, the sequence is almost impossible to read. I see from the make that it’s a six-digit code. It can’t be your birthday,” he turns around to glance at her. “No disrespect, but clearly you were born in the eighties and eight’s barely used.” He informs her.

“I’d tell you the code right now, but you know what? I already have.” She smirks at him, making Sherlock offer a confused expression. “Think.” Irene repeats his words to her from earlier.

However, suddenly, the door swings open and reveals quite unfamiliar men with John as hostage. Sherlock feels his eye twitch, can’t believe his doctor is in danger once again because of him. “Hands above your head, on the ground! Keep it still.” His booming voice filled the entire room. “Miss Adler, on the floor!” The man commands her, and the detective watches as his friend and the dominatrix knelt on the ground with guns pointed towards their heads.

Sherlock is quite calm, finding time to make a sarcastic remark. “Don’t you want me on the floor too?”

“No, sir, I want you to open the safe.” His accent is so prominent, that it caught his attention.

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “American. Interesting. Why would you care?” He sends a glance at Irene Adler, who appears so cryptic as usual.

“Sir, the safe, now. Please.” He doesn’t sound as if he was pleading, the man appeared as though he would do something quite awful if Sherlock doesn’t do what he was asking.

“I don’t know the code.”

“We’ve been listening, she said she told you.”

“Well, if you’ve been listening, you’d know she didn’t.” He shots back.

The man only looks even more annoyed. “I’m assuming I’ve missed something. From your reputation, I’m assuming  _you_  didn’t, Mr. Holmes.”

John has had enough. “For God’s sake,  _she’s_  the one who knows the code. Ask her!” He compels them.

“Yes, sir, she also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.” He glares at her.

Irene frowns. “Mr. Holmes doesn’t—”

“Shut up, one more word from you and I swear, I will decorate the walls with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be hardship.” his eyes are blazing with anger, and Sherlock furrows his eyebrows at him, how can this man appear so infuriated upon photograph? Clearly, whatever is in the safe, they are all more than photos of men and women in an uncompromising scenario. Could it be? Sherlock has come to a clean conclusion; this Adler woman is more than what she seems. “Mr. Archer, at the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson.”

“What?” John alarmingly says.

Sherlock visibly stiffens, but remains his cold face intact. “I don’t know the code.” He immediately says in a low voice, arms still raised above his head. At his peripheral version, he sees the man, Mr. Archer, press the gun against John’s neck and all he could think about is how his friend’s heart rate might suddenly increase, how terrified he must be; all because the consulting detective got him into this mess.

“One.”

“I  _don’t_ know the code.”

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me, I  _don’t_ know it!” Sherlock yells at him, completely horrified at the thought of his best friend— _best_  friend?—dying because of him.

The man is absolutely nonchalant about this, so ready to take a life to prove a point. “I’m prepared to believe you, any second now.” He says. “Three.”

“No, stop!” Sherlock musters every nerve inside his brain, collecting as much data he gathered since he met Irene Adler. Every single detail replayed in his head and without him realizing, he is back inside his mind palace, in the middle of the living room of a familiar flat.

The consulting detective sighs, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Is this a joke?”

“No, of course not.” He hears her voice, turning to his left and widening his eyes, immediately looking away and exclaiming. “For Christ’s sake.”

Jocelyn, a figure of her stood to his left, missing her clothes from the upper-half of her body, and only wearing those boxers of his, for a reason he’d rather not mention. Her arms were wrapped around her to cover her chest, and of course, Sherlock cannot see past any of that. He has never seen her fully disrobed like how Miss Adler was earlier. “Is this a bit uncomfortable for you?”

Sherlock groans in frustration, almost digging his own fingernails into his scalp. “This is bloody ridiculous.” The Jocelyn consciousness has been gone for weeks and she decides to show up in the most undignified way? Missing her brassiere and blouse? This is utterly idiotic that Sherlock cannot believe that his friend is just about to be shot while he’s standing in the middle of his mind palace with a half-naked woman to his left.

“What, were you not having fun comparing body sizes earlier?” She teases. “I think Miss Adler would be flattered by your lingering gaze.” Jocelyn laughs.

“She shouldn’t be. The  _lingering_  gaze would be for research.” He claims.

Jocelyn only raises a brow, mocking a nod as if making fun of him by pretending to agree. It is quite obvious, making him glare in front of him, still looking away from her. “Research, right. Comparing the two  _living_  feminine bodies that you have witnessed throughout your lifetime?”

Sherlock scoffs, shaking his head, finding how awful the situation is. He can’t believe he understood the code because of how observant he was being. And the reason behind it was that he was comparing two different bodies for no reason at all. Bodies are only material, the mind is much more advanced than the workings of a living human body. Yet here he is, in disbelief of himself for being so materialistic. So shallow. So…  _human_. He almost scrunched his face in disgust.

“This is unnecessary, you are aware of that?” Sherlock raises his brows, refusing to glance at her inappropriate state.

She hums. “Is it? If you hadn’t just done the compare and contrast, you wouldn’t have gotten the code.” She’s grinning, arms still wrapped around herself. “Irene’s skin is much lighter than mine, her hips are narrower, chest is bigger, her curves are more prominent and she looks as if she was crafted as a mannequin.” Jocelyn lists off the things that Sherlock has observed and for a second before she started speaking, Sherlock almost forgot she was him. “Yet, you don’t  _feel_  any sort of attraction towards her. Not like John, which was fairly obvious. Men, right?” She jokes from behind him, the consulting detective wanting to leave this place again. “Times like these when we were in college, you’d question yourself if you could feel any attraction at all—”

“Stop, just—” Sherlock turns to her, eyes on her face only as he pauses to sigh. “I do not have time for this.”

She slowly lowers her arms and Sherlock’s gaze remains into her eyes. Jocelyn smiles when she realizes that he still had such respect as to not direct his attention to the details of her body. “Ever the gentleman, are we?”

“The female body is not appealing. It is the chemicals in one’s brain that stimulates certain organs to function in order to oblige to the natural need of human beings to feel pleasure or procreate.” He emotionlessly tells her, eyes cold. Her eyes hint mischief, the grin on her face is the telltale sign of someone who knew better than listen to him, seeing past the façade he displays. “Now, quit bothering me. I’m working.” He glares, blinking her image away.

Now, he’s right in front of the safe with only three seconds passing. He hesitates, but reaches for the keypad, keying in the digits replaying in his mind.  _Hips are narrower, chest is slightly bigger, and waistline is much smaller._ The safe makes a clicking sound, and the man holding the gun towards him lets out a sigh in relief. Sherlock is correct; her measurements were the code. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please.”

Sherlock twists the handle, slowly glancing at Miss Adler, who looks away almost immediately. He looks back at the safe, clearly realizing how it’s been rigged with a weapon meant to kill anyone who’d like to access it. Sherlock braces himself, hopefully his blogger would understand. “Vatican cameos,” he signals and opened the safe in a swift manner. The safe contained a gun, going off and shooting the man who held John at gunpoint. Sherlock swivels around and takes the gun from the man, swinging it across his face to knock him out. Miss Adler elbows the other American’s groin and takes his gun as well.

He huffs, fixing the front of his blazer as he glances at Irene. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” she mutters, mirroring Sherlock’s actions by swinging the gun across his face to knock him out as well. Sherlock turns back around, retrieving a phone from inside the safe and slipping it inside his pocket.

John pulls himself on his feet. “He’s dead,” he points at the man who was shot earlier.

“Thank you,” Irene cuts in, out of breath. “You were very observant.” She smirks.

“Observant?” John repeats, unsure of what it meant.

“I’m flattered,” she continues.

Sherlock almost rolls his eyes.  _See, I was right._ “Don’t be.”

“Flattered?” John glances at his companion, confused.

The consulting detective decides to drop the subject. “There’ll be more of them. They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.” Sherlock jogs outside, choosing to check every room in the building to search for where they went through.

John breathlessly follows him outside. “We should call the police.”

“Yes,” he replies before pointing the gun to the sky and shooting into the air multiple times, John flinching. “On their way,” Sherlock casually says before walking back inside.

“For  _God’s_ sake.”

“Shut up, it’s quick.” He says nonchalantly. “Check the rest of the house, see how they got in.” Sherlock informs John, walking back inside where Irene, looking very worried, is located. “Well, that’s the knighthood in the bag.” Sherlock dryly jokes, flipping the phone and viewing it.

“Ah,” she exclaims, extending her hand with her open palm facing upwards. “And that’s mine.”

Sherlock opens the phone and reveals a four-digit or lettered code locking the phone. “All the photographs are in here, I presume.”

Irene looks taken aback. “I have copies, of course.”

He looks up and gives her a lazy look. “No, you don’t. You’d have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection.” He can feel his heartbeat calming. “Unless the contents of this phone are proven to be unique, you wouldn’t be able to sell them.” He claims.

Irene pauses, shrugging a bit. “Who says I’m selling?”

“Why would they be interested?” Sherlock glances at the unconscious bodies on the floor. “Whatever’s on the phone is clearly not just photographs.”

“That camera phone is my life, Mr. Holmes. I’d die before I let you take it,” she steps forward, still extending her hand to urge him to give it back to her. “It’s my protection.”

He appears as if he had solved it all, tightly gripping the phone in his hand. “It was.” He comments before following John to the other room after hearing the man call out his name, seeing how the other lady, Kate, is somehow unconscious as well on the ground.

Sherlock views the room, observing every single detail and noticed small aspects of the room that screamed burglary. “Must’ve came this way.” John begins.

“Clearly.” Sherlock absentmindedly adds.

Irene sees Kate on the floor and sighs. “Don’t worry, she’s just out cold.” John says upon seeing the look on her face.

She frowns. “Well, God knows she’s used to that. There’s a backdoor.” Irene informs the two of them. “Better check it Dr. Watson.” She idly mumbles, proceeding to her desk that had drawers in them.

Sherlock nods at John, who just huffs and goes to scope the area, leaving the two of them alone. The consulting detective glances at Miss Adler, noticing how quiet she became. “You’re very calm.” He fills the silence, just before she turns to meet his eyes in a questioning manner. “Well, your booby-trap did just kill a man.”

“Hm, he would have killed me.” She slowly makes her way towards Sherlock, brushing her hand on the sleeve of his jacket. He feels confused and uncomfortable, notably disliking the feeling of being touched by someone in an affectionate way. “It was self-defense in advance.”

Although, all of that is put into an abrupt halt when he feels a needle pierce through his other arm and makes him let out a yelp in pain, stumbling backwards almost immediately. “What… what is that?” He tries yelling, but the words come out as his normal voice. He feels a pang to his cheek, the same feeling of when Harry Watson’s palm swung across his skin upon finding out that he was the reason for Jocelyn’s obvious traumatic experience—although, Miss Adler’s is much more forceful. Sherlock cannot tell if the drug only heightened his sensitivity level or not.

He wakes up in his mind palace, inside the car of the hiker’s case witness. He looks to his left, seeing Miss Adler wearing his coat and her finger against his lips. “Got it, don’t get up. I’ll do the talking.” She softly says, walking to the back of the car.

 _What’s happening? Why is she here? Please, do not tell me she is a new arrival of consciousness._ Sherlock thinks to himself, trying his best to wake up. He’ll be able to delete her in the morning, right?

And so, Sherlock has barely remembered anything, but all he could remember is how he refused to give up the phone and in turn, is physically abused with the use of a riding crop.

_“This is how I want you to remember me,” he hears Miss Adler’s voice, feeling the soft leather against his cheek. “The Woman who beat you.”_

Well, in that case, she’s not the only one.

Jocelyn walks outside of the Yard, gloves covering her shaking hands as the cold instantly reminds her of her time in that freezer. It feels ridiculous, to still feel this way even after weeks. She isn’t a big fan of trauma, it messes with her sometimes. There are many instances where she just remembers a certain smell, color, or touch that reminds her of that time she was inside an enclosed space, with not window or anything that could give her proper oxygen. It felt horrifying. She fixes her beanie, trying to warm her ears. Her coat wrapped around herself as she walks down the lane, greeting some other co-workers that would pass by.

She hails a cab and quickly slips inside, shivering from how cold it is. Just then, her phone rings and she immediately knew it was John. Probably to ask if she’s on her way to Baker Street already. Jocelyn goes to answer the phone and smiles. “Hey, I’m on my way over now.”

She hears him make a sound of hesitation. “About that, I think we’re going to have to cancel tonight.”

Jocelyn’s smile falters a bit, but tries not to show how disappointed she feels. “Did something come up?”

“Yeah, you can say that.” His voice is much quieter. “Sherlock got drugged, he’s sleeping right now.”

Her soul almost leaves her body as her eyes widen. “What? What happened? Is he okay now?” She immediately asks, unable to stop her questions.

John can almost feel the amount of worry she is exuding. It doesn’t really surprise John how much Jocelyn cares about Sherlock. No one can really take away an emotional bond a person has created for someone else. John knows how much the two of them care about one another, although Sherlock shows it in a more spiteful way, as if he refuses to care about her even when he does. Take the incident with Moriarty as an example. John has never seen Sherlock panic until that evening. He lets out a chuckle. “Don’t worry, he’s quite fine now.” He reassures, making her sigh in relief. “You can still come over, if you’d like. I was only cancelling since maybe you’d prefer—”

“I’m coming over, I need to know what happened.” She cuts him off, apologizing shortly after for interrupting, to which John just hums amusedly.

When she arrives in Baker Street, she’s immediately greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who appeared to be cleaning her living room and only left her flat to start sweeping along the staircase. The landlady is delighted to see her again, giving her a warm and welcoming hug before letting her continue upstairs.

The door is already open and so she walks inside as if she lives there, John wouldn’t mind. Jocelyn slips her gloves off and takes off her hat, hearing footsteps come from the stairs that leads to John’s bedroom. She grins upon seeing John, stepping forward to give him a hug. Over the past few months, John and Jocelyn really built a solid friendship, even though they hardly saw each other after she moved to a different place.

“Nice to see you around here again,” John teases with a grin, pulling away and gesturing to the chairs in front of the fire. “Madman’s asleep. An unsettling sight, if you ask me.” He mutters, making her giggle at the small nickname, but her worry is still present.

She takes a seat and sighs upon feeling the heat from the fire. “What exactly happened?”

John sucks in a sharp breath, exhaling right after as he sits next to Jocelyn in front of the fireplace. “Irene Adler, she’s apparently a dominatrix.”

“Dominatrix?” She raises a brow. “Isn’t that the sexual fantasy going around these days?”

“I think so.” John tilts his head, unsure how to respond to that. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but something from the Royal Family got caught between that mess. Now, this Adler woman has very uncompromising photos in her phone.”

Jocelyn covers her mouth in surprise. “The Royal Family? Now, that’s quite a scandal.” She tries to lighten the mood, but she sees how an apparent scandal can really taint the family name. “You and Sherlock decided to meet her, yes?” She asks, making him nod. “So, how did Sherlock get drugged? It didn’t have any poison in it, right?”

“No, no, we had his blood tested. It was just to put his body to sleep. Thankfully. I’m really glad about how quiet the flat became.” He laughs it off as if he wasn’t just terrified about losing his friend.

Jocelyn sighs. “He’ll probably be okay in the morning, if it’s just a sleeping drug. Sherlock is much stronger than he looks.” She points out.

Just then, they both hear a loud thud, following Holmes’ voice.  Jocelyn gets onto her feet in alert, clearly worried. John holds up one finger, wordlessly telling her to give him a moment before he walks to Sherlock’s room, opening the door and peeking inside. He sees the man on the floor, clearly puzzled. “You okay?”

She listens in, not wanting to show herself just yet as her palms press together in anxiety. She worries and worries and worries, the constant nagging in her head for Sherlock’s wellbeing can never halt. The detective gives John a look. “How did I get here?”

“Well, I don’t suppose you remember much. You weren’t making lots of sense.” He watches Sherlock make faces, as if he still cannot control his body. “Oh, I should warn you, Lestrade probably filmed you on his phone.” John cringes.

Sherlock doesn’t bother. “Where is she?”

John isn’t quite surprised of how Sherlock figured out that Jocelyn is inside the flat, and so he thinks not much of it. “She’s right outside, why?”

Sherlock’s head snaps toward him. He tries to gather his senses and slowly inhales the air around John. He immediately recognizes the perfume and almost glares, but his body is not letting him do so. “Your evening date is with Jocelyn?”

The Doctor furrowed his brows, glancing outside the room and seeing her frown, before looking back at Sherlock. “Friendly date, Sherlock. If you needed knowing. Why were you looking for her?”

Sherlock scoffs, repulsed by the idea. “I’m not looking for  _her_ , I’m referring to the Woman.” He insists.

John narrows his eyes in conflict. “Who?”

“The Woman,  _that_ Woman.” Sherlock trails off. “ _The_  Woman. The  _Woman woman.”_ Sherlock keeps emphasizing, but stumbling at the same time.

It clicks suddenly. “Oh, Irene Adler? She got away, no one’s seen her.” John watches as Sherlock goes to view outside the window in a frantic yet disgraceful way. When Sherlock drops to the floor with a loud thud to view under the bed, Jocelyn jumps and slowly walks up to the room, slightly peeking inside to see if Sherlock was fine. She observes how John helps him back onto his bed and covers him with the sheets, telling the man he’ll be fine in the morning just as Jocelyn said earlier.

John gives her a tight smile, leaving the room and letting Jocelyn walk inside, although she feels unwelcome inside. Sherlock’s back is towards him, so he can’t see her. She looks around his room, realizing how she has never been here the entirety of her stay. It was always locked or just really private for Jocelyn to just trespass to.

Sherlock groans, knowing that she’s in his presence. “What are you doing here? You should not be here.” He mumbled with a low voice, still uncollected because of the drug.

She hums, viewing the periodic table behind his door. She is quite unaware of how Sherlock is unsure if this Jocelyn is the real one or the one inside his head. “John invited me over.”

“Aren't you supposed to be occupied with work?” Sherlock remarks rudely. “Or with a certain criminologist.”

Jocelyn raises her brows, a bit surprised as she glances at him over her shoulder. Sherlock is never one to remember a person he would deem to be unimportant. Why did he suddenly remember who Jack is? “I'm done with the case, submitted everything I needed to.” She tells him. “As for Dr. Palmer, he and I can never end since we never began,” she clarifies it to him, amused how Sherlock lets out a hum. “Not sure why it matters to you, though.”

“It doesn't.” He quickly denies, almost groaning at how awful the subject is. Why did he have to bring that man up? It was idiotic and makes him sound very envious, which he isn't Keep that in mind, he can never be jealous of someone who does not have something he wants.

Jocelyn nods along, clearly amused by the situation. ”Right. This is fun. Glad John invited me over."

“To watch me like this? Drug induced?”

She smiles to herself. “No, to hang out. He tried cancelling because of what happened to you.”

_Sentiment. This is definitely the mind palace version. But why on Earth would she appear in my current room? No, this isn't right. This cannot be the consciousness, but this also cannot be the real Jocelyn._ _The real one would never care for him in such a genuine manner that it pierces into Sherlock's chest of how much he warmed._ _But how can a consciousness be able to be invited by John?_

Sherlock still refuses to accept that this is the real Jocelyn, but he knew that it's true. “If that’s the case, why did you still come?” Sherlock closes his eyes, unable to keep them open anymore.

Jocelyn stiffens a bit, not really knowing how to answer him. “Because.”  _Because you always put yourself in danger, and I worry._ She thinks to herself, but decides not to continue.

He clicks his tongue. “That is not a reason.  _Because_ is a subordinating conjunction, not the companion of effect.” Sherlock mumbles. Even in his drug-induced state, he still has time to point of every illogical thing and that makes her smile a bit, turning around to slowly sit down on the edge of the bed. He is sprawled across the bed like a child, it’s an amusing view.

Jocelyn hums. “You were drugged and I wanted to see how I can help John. Maybe try to make things better.”

“How were things worse?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “You know what? You’re right. You’re perfectly fine now.” Jocelyn softly says, fingers feeling the soft fabric of the sheets he is currently wrapped around in. She accidentally, but delicately, brushes her fingertips on his back and it’s surprising how he doesn’t flinch or move away from the touch. Instead, he slowly fell asleep to it, feeling the gentle movement of the sheets around him, knowing that they are caused by her calloused fingers. The soft snores coming from him that indicated his unconscious state, it sends a wave of relief along her body.

Jocelyn sighs to herself, slowly becoming aware of how she still cares about Sherlock the same way she did back then. Not romantically, but how she cares about him in a way that she’ll constantly worry and choose his wellbeing over anyone else’s. Views like that sometimes never change, which is why Jocelyn isn’t surprised that she still cares even after years. Much like Mycroft has shown her. The eight years were mere illusions, it feels as though she’s nineteen again.

Only difference now is that Sherlock  _hates_  her with  _every_  nerve in his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, it really helps with the motivation :) x


	11. The Christmas

Sherlock awakens the next morning, still feeling his head hurt as he tries to sit up. He lets out a soft groan as he clutches his temples, slowly trying to settle his racing mind into one simple track. He slowly sits up and hears an odd noise coming from behind his door. He stands on his feet while stumbling back before he carries himself towards it, seeing his coat and reaching inside to take his phone.

He reads the text in with his eyes. _“‘Til the next time, Mr. Holmes.”_ And he did not need anything else to conclude that this is the Woman. He leans against the door, contemplating on what to do. As usual, he chooses to ignore it before he takes his dressing gown to throw it on himself. Sherlock leaves the room and is immediately aware of an unwanted presence within his flat, just by seeing the tilted door handle that leads to the bathroom. He frowns, proceeding to the kitchen and sees Watson putting on a kettle while three mugs settled on the counter.

“You let her stay the night?” Sherlock immediately asks John, making him look over his shoulder.

John delightfully hums. “Ah, you’re awake.” He mumbles, leaning against the counter before sliding a glass of water and a foil pack of pills. “You should take one and drink.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, but rightfully accepts since he does not want to annoy the doctor. John nods. “Yes, she stayed the night. It was dark out and dangerous. I didn’t want her to walk down the street just to hail a cab.” He observes the detective for a second, squinting his eyes as he spots a small mark on the lower part of his cheek. John gestures at his own cheek to indicate Sherlock’s. “What’s that on the side of your face?”

Sherlock frowns, immediately reaching up to wipe the corner of his mouth and taking a whiff of his fingers. _Lipstick, not the particular brand that Jocelyn uses; thank God. Therefore, that would mean they came from the Woman. How quaint._ He huffs, rolling his eyes as he goes to the sink, cleaning his skin with water. “Could have called Mycroft. He’s good with sending vehicles to kidnap.” Sherlock reasons, shifting the topic.

The doctor is still unsure of what the mark was, but chooses to ignore it, knowing that his flatmate is a bit odd. He shouldn’t be surprised anymore. “Example would be yours truly,” John adds, before pouring coffee into the mugs and passing one to his flatmate. “She slept on the couch, it took me around an hour to convince her to take my room, but I gave up. You know how stubborn she is.” He smiles.

 _Too well, John, too well_. He thinks to himself as he goes to retrieve the newspaper after drying his hands with a towel and takes a seat in front of the table. He ignores the warm unconscious body lying on his couch and proceeds with today’s news. John glances at the sleeping woman wrapped in blankets, her back facing towards them. Sherlock steals a short glance as well, unable to help himself as he watches her body give off hints of involuntary breathing. He looks away and continues reading his newspaper. “Be ready for an unwarranted visit from Mycroft, I hear he’s quite displeased with our failure to acquire the photographs,”

And he stands corrected as a few minutes later; Mrs. Hudson invites Mycroft into the flat with an unwelcoming expression. She was quite aware of the events from last night, because John and Lestrade took Sherlock home. He seemed to be drugged out of his mind and it clearly worried Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft is slightly confused upon seeing Jocelyn, who is now awake with her hair a mess as she sits on the sofa. When she woke up just before Mycroft arrived, Sherlock paid her no mind. John sits at the table with Sherlock as he eats his breakfast while Mycroft stood by the fireplace with a hand inside his pocket and the other holding an umbrella.

“Shouldn’t you be in Scotland Yard, Miss Fray?” Mycroft queries. “I thought you’ve already found a new apartment for you to settle in.” He perfectly knows that she already has her own place; it’s just very unusual for her to be staying in Baker Street again.

“That would be my fault,” John cuts in, and makes her purse her lips. “Made her come over too late.”

“And work doesn’t start for another hour,” Jocelyn tells him as if Mycroft needed to know that. He knew her schedule already, as creepy as it sounds, it’s Mycroft.

The elder Holmes sighs in distress. “Fine.” He mutters, turning back to his brother who, still, ignores everyone. “And what about our arrangements, dear brother?” He asks, clearly not giving away the case since Jocelyn is in the room.

“Don’t act all cautious, Mycroft. Jocelyn already knows.” Sherlock continues in an unimpressed tone, making his brother snap his head towards him.

Mycroft glares at the two men. “Naturally. Of course, you’d assume it would be a wise decision involving her into this.”

Jocelyn frowns, not getting the bigger picture yet. All she knows is that the Royal Family may be involved in a scandal and Sherlock was harmed in the process of fixing it for Mycroft. She’s not really aware of what Sherlock and John were taking or learning from Irene Adler, but it was quite obvious that she has something that the Government wants back.

Sherlock’s eyes travel to his brother briefly before going back to his newspaper. “The photographs are perfectly safe.”

Mycroft blinks at him, raising his brows. At this point, he couldn’t care less that they are in Jocelyn’s presence, speaking of something highly confidential. John notices this as well, it only proves to him how much the elder Holmes trusts Jocelyn. “In the hands of a fugitive sex worker?”

“She’s not interested in blackmail.” Sherlock snaps to make his brother quiet down for a second. “She wants… protection. For some reason.” He mumbles the last part under his breath. John furrows his brows at him, sensing how interested his friend is over this Adler woman. The doctor can’t say why or how, but it feels unusual to see Sherlock take an interest with some woman they’ve only met once. In addition, he’s not even sure what kind of interest Sherlock is feeling for her, the woman drugged him and he appears so calm about it. Sherlock looks up at his brother. “I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?”

“How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied.” Mycroft presses, unaware of the context of what he just said.

Sherlock tilts his head. “She’d applaud your choice of words.” He bluntly jokes, not even giving a hint of a smile as he looks towards his brother. “You see how this works, that camera phone is her get-out-of-jail-free card. You have to leave her alone.” He finishes before adding, “Treat her like Royalty, Mycroft.” He sarcastically says.

John shifts in his seat, giving Mycroft a look. “Though, not the way she treats Royalty.” He adds to the sarcasm, making Sherlock smile a bit. Mycroft mocks a grin, a bit annoyed.

Jocelyn is just lost, not quite sure of what they’re talking about. “There was a shooting at her house? While the two of you were there?” She asks them, making all, but one, men glance at her.

Her question remains unanswered when they suddenly hear a small, but distinct noise as a text alert. The sound processed itself in the three’s minds, unsure of what they heard. John is the first to ask. “What was that?” He glances at the consulting detective.

Sherlock side-eyes, exasperated. “Text.” He simply says, closing his newspaper and getting onto his feet. Jocelyn knots her brows together, trying to recall the noise she just heard. That’s surely not what she thinks it is, right? Sherlock retrieves his phone and reads a message with his eyes. “Did you know there were other people after her, too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there?” He asks, but Mycroft is quite busy with trying to glance over at whom texted him, unsuccessful. “CIA trained killers, I think excellent guess.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft,” John huffs, continuing with his breakfast.

Jocelyn feels even more worried, now knowing that the two were caught in crossfire and almost were shot, probably. She can’t believe she’s only finding about this now and not last night. All she knew last night was that Sherlock was drugged, and she’s not even aware of how it happened. There were many things she’s clueless of now, and it made her feel helpless. Although, it’s unclear to her why she feels the need to always take care of the two, especially the cold-hearted detective.

Mrs. Hudson walks inside with a plate in her hand. “It’s a disgrace, letting your little brother walk into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.” She huffs, patting Sherlock’s back as she sets down some food onto the table.

Mycroft winces. “Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson!” He snaps, eyes squinting.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock immediately yells. The lady on the couch only widens her eyes in surprise at the sound of Sherlock’s booming voice and Mycroft’s choice of words.

“Oi!” John glares just as Mrs. Hudson holds a disapproving expression on her face.

Mycroft realizes his mistake as he glances between the faces of the people around him. Still, he did not want to admit his wrong, he apologizes nonetheless. “Apologies,” he mutters, trying his best to sound genuine but failing.

Mrs. Hudson tilts her head, but accepts the half-hearted apology anyway. Sherlock, ever the arsehole, adds, “Though do, in fact, shut up.” And makes Jocelyn sigh from behind them, pulling herself onto her feet to help Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen to make her feel better. She freezes in her steps when hearing the same noise from earlier and it is _definitely_ a woman moaning.

Sherlock glances at his phone and opens it, reading another text just as Mrs. Hudson jokingly complains about the rude noise. Jocelyn tilts her head towards Sherlock, not quite sure how a person like him could ever change his text alert to _that_. Surely, someone set it that way themselves. She shrugs off the thought and follows Mrs. Hudson to the kitchen. “There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do, as far as I can see.”

When Mycroft’s phone rings and he exits the room, Sherlock’s gaze follows him in a suspecting manner. John leans in a bit to keep his voice down. “Why does your phone make that noise?”

Sherlock plays stupid, although his level of stupid. He pauses, clicking his tongue. “What noise?”

“That noise, the one it just made.”

“It’s a text alert, means I’ve got a text.” Sherlock waves off, clearly not wanting to discuss this.

“Hm,” John begins contemplating. “Your texts usually don’t make that noise.”

“Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise.” He explains. John hums. “So, every time they text you—” He’s cut off the the sound of a woman sighing, and makes Mrs. Hudson snap her head towards them in an offended manner, Jocelyn only quietly washed her hands.

“It would seem so.” He shortly replies and views the text just before Mrs. Hudson complains about the noise again and, as usual, is ignored by the detective.

There is a moment of silence, but John, unfortunately for Sherlock, breaks the quiet. “See, I’m wondering who could have gotten hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll leave you to your deductions.” Sherlock mumbles lowly, sure that his companion will eventually figure it out.

John smiles, glancing down at his plate. “I’m not stupid, you know?” He says, wanting his friend to know that he already knew.

“Where do you get that idea?” Sherlock counters, wanting his friend to know that he never assumed John to be half-witted. When Mycroft comes back, Sherlock does everything he could to gather information. “What else does she have? Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs.” He deduces, squinting his eyes in anticipation. “There’s more.” He stands, walking towards his brother. “Much more. Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

Mycroft doesn’t even falter at Sherlock’s tone. “Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on, you will stay out of this.”

“Oh, will I?” He challenges, voice whispered.

Mycroft slyly grins. “Yes, Sherlock. You will.” The eldest Holmes finishes, making Sherlock walk away from him and take his violin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”

“Do give her my love.” Sherlock’s sarcasm is on point as he plays the notes of the national anthem with his violin. Mycroft glares at him before turning around and walking to the kitchen.

Jocelyn turns and offers Mycroft a smile, trying not to get distracted by Sherlock’s beautiful playing. “Is everything okay?”

“From that conversation alone, I’d assume you’ve already answered your own question.” Mycroft sighs, glancing behind him to see his brother playing his violin while standing in front of the window. “Not a word about all that you know, to anyone. I’m sure you are aware of the consequences not only you, but _he_ will face if any of this is released to public knowledge.”

She nods, frowning with worry. “Of course.”

“And, if it’s not entirely a bother,” Mycroft lowers his voice. “Leave Baker Street as soon as possible. We don’t want any other casualties happening.”

Jocelyn immediately understands and doesn’t even question it. She only nods wordlessly and watches as Mycroft lets out a big sigh before leaving the building. He shoulders sag as she buries her face into her hands for a second, clearly puzzled.

\--

It was getting very cold and Christmas was slowly arriving. Jocelyn was sat inside her dorm writing notes and studying them as she seldom does. Christmas break was something everyone looked forward for, but not Jocelyn. It would mean another week of studying. Of course, she should be with her family, but her mother is with her Aunt Catelyn and her family now. They’re all going elsewhere to celebrate Christmas while she can only stay in England, her documents can’t really grant her to leave the country just yet. As for her father, well, no one has time to unpack all of that.

Her roommate’s suitcase was situated by the door as she left earlier with her boyfriend, giving Jocelyn the privacy she needed. It had a been two months and a half since she met Sherlock and the two of them were inseparable. Sherlock might not notice it, but he’s growing quite attached to the pianist as time went by.

Which was exactly why he felt nervous as he stood in front of her door, trying to decide if he should knock or not. He scratched the back of his head, pressing his lips together as he stared intently at the doorknob. As usual, Sherlock was unaware of what emotion he felt. Jocelyn mentioned it before; being nervous. He recalled the way she made it quite clear how nervous she got before and during their performance together. Sherlock exhaled and raised his fist, knocking gently on the door.

Jocelyn looked towards the door, frowning. She deeply wished it wasn’t her dormmate or else her alone time would be completely ruined. She did not want to see her roommate make out with her boyfriend of the bed again, it was very uncomfortable at first and it reminded her why she got a small flat outside the campus. She swing open the door and instantly lights up upon seeing Sherlock, dressed in his usual semi-formal attire. It was quite amusing, in all honesty. Sherlock, wearing black pants with his dark purple button-up tucked inside it, completed with his black shoes; while Jocelyn wore a white shirt and pajamas as if she never left her bed this morning.

She stepped aside to let him in, clearly confused as to how he was allowed inside, but simply decided not to ask questions. “I’m so stressed out with school.” She complains to him, rubbing her forehead. Sherlock sits on her bed, shifting a bit as he took in the sight of scattered papers and books on the table and floor. When Jocelyn has a mess, there is definitely a problem. He learned that not so long ago. “Shouldn’t you be packing and off to your mother’s for Christmas? Isn’t that what families do?” He carefully words, watching her sigh and sit down on her chair, pulling it so she was in front of him.

Jocelyn clasped her hands together and pressed her lips into a thin line. “I’m not going anywhere for Christmas break, honestly. My mother and Aunt are travelling to Asia, I can’t really go with them.” She sighed.

Sherlock tilted his head, reaching to her desk to take her notebook and started to read what she was studying. “Why not?”

“I don’t have a passport.” She softly said.

Sherlock closed the notebook and crossed his legs, confused. “Why do you not have a passport? Everyone has passports.”

Jocelyn chuckled. “Mine expired years ago. Didn’t really think of having it renewed.” She shrugged.

“Right,” he trailed off, trying to think of something to say. With Jocelyn, he practiced quite well how to speak with other people. Jocelyn had the tendency in showing him what to do or telling him what to say and eventually, he’d understand.

And just then, Sherlock had a brilliant idea. He stood up straight and made the girl follow him with her eyes. “I know.” He declared. “Why not spend the next three weeks at home?” He offered, eyes hopeful that she’d agree.

Jocelyn, on the other hand, understood it incorrectly. “I can’t go home, it’ll be empty. My mother and aunt will be long gone.” It generally occurred to Jocelyn that she had no permanent home. Her parents’ marriage fell apart just before she became a teenager, which was great since she didn’t have to go through an emotional breakdown because of it.

Sherlock was now confused, squinting his eyes as he understood what Jocelyn might have understood with what he said. “No, not your home. I meant… _my_ home.” He awkwardly proposed, clearly regretting it as soon as he saw the look on her face.

She appeared to be surprised and speechless, unsure how to respond to that as she looked back at him. It took her a moment to digest what he asked her before she could formulate a response. Moreover, her response is quite prominent as she broke out a smile. “You mean spend Christmas with you?”

“And the New Year’s, of course.” He added, as if he hadn’t just done something quite touching and heart-warming for Jocelyn, it made her face redden and she can’t really hide it away this time.

Jocelyn didn’t hesitate with nodding. “Okay, yes. Sure!” She agreed in between a few laughs, making him smile as well.

“Good.” He felt a sudden rush of relief upon hearing her words. He noticed how red her face is once again. It has been happening quite often, Sherlock could almost ask her if she has a fever or anything awful that she feels.

Her smiley face is soon after replaced by a frown. “Will your parents be fine with it? Me coming along?” She anxiously asked.

Sherlock almost grinned widely, but suppressed it with half a smile. His parents are going to lose their minds when they met her, just as Sherlock lost his. “I wouldn’t take it personally if my mother force feeds you with pudding with how much she’s going to enjoy your presence. My father will admire you, quite so. As for my brother, well,” he trailed off, looking down at his shoes as his hands laced together behind him.

Jocelyn tilted her head, pushing up on her toes to stand in front of Sherlock with a smile. “As for your brother, what?” She teased.

“I haven’t told you why I actually came here,” he started. “My brother wanted me to invite you to a small celebration, just a few days before Christmas.” Sherlock nodded.

Her eyes glinted with happiness; she has never felt this busy for Christmas for a long time. The Holmes family is really going to keep her busy for the next three weeks. “A celebration? For what?”

“Our parents’ Silver Wedding Anniversary.” Sherlock informed. “Mycroft is arranging it, of course. It’s supposed to be a surprise, apparently. He asked me to invite you, and since you’ll be staying with us, maybe you can bring your things already and I can drive the two of us to the venue.”

“Look at how posh you sounded while saying all those words to me,” she giggled, and the delightful sound made his stomach twist. “A Silver Wedding Anniversary, wow.” She felt so happy. It was nice to hear someone’s parents reaching twenty-five years of marriage. Her own parents couldn’t even reach ten.

Sherlock nodded, clearly agreeing how posh it all sounded. “It’s going to be quite elegant. Mycroft’s inviting many people as well, but he wanted me to ask you.”

“To ask me?” She suppressed a grin. “Like a date?”

His face paled, but it was barely unnoticeable considering his complexion. Sherlock may not be aware of many humanly things, but he is perfectly aware what a date is. Of course he does, he remembered it being mentioned during high school before prom, something that he chose not to attend. He started stammering. “Um, I, uh, well—”

“I’m only messing, Sherlock,” she joked, although it felt awkward to do so. _Damn, that was a disaster_. Sherlock frowns, visibly gulping as he nodded, eyes shifting back to the ground. She feared that she may have made it awkward now, and so she softly chuckled. “I’d be honored to attend. It’s nice that your brother thought of me, we only met a few times,” she teased.

“You didn’t make a fleeting impression, of course. I believe my brother now calls you the cotton-candy haired lady.” Sherlock added, making her laugh and shake her head at him, quite fond of the boy more than she ever expected herself to be.

\--

“Lovely, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson claps happily, Lestrade whistles in acknowledgement just as the detective bows down as if it were a stage performance of _‘We wish you a Merry Christmas’_ in violin. “That was lovely!” She compliments. A few months flew by and now it’s Christmas. John and Sherlock— _well, mostly John_ —held a small get-together in their flat, consisting of a few friends.

“Mm, marvelous,” John nods at his friend, sitting on his chair while carrying a bottle of Heineken and a cup of tea.

Mrs. Hudson is all smiles. “I wish you’d had worn the antlers, though,” she laughs.

Sherlock hums. “Some things are better left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson.” He adds in to the joke while John offers Mrs. Hudson more to drink.

A woman comes up to Sherlock, offering her food. He politely smiles, knowing how it humanizes him. “Oh, no, thank you, Sarah.” He says, but seeing the disappointment wash over her face.

“Err, no, no, no, he’s not good with names,” Quite ironic, though. Sherlock can remember every single detail except for the names of John’s girlfriends.

“Oh, I think I can get this,” Sherlock offers, but John only sends him a death glare. “No, no, Sarah was the doctor, then there’s one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and… who’s after the boring teacher?” He trails off, not even seeing the way John looks very angry.

John’s girlfriend sighs, crossing her arms. “Nobody,”

Sherlock exclaims happily. “Jeanette!” He points at her with the violin bow. “Ah, the process of elimination.” He makes known, and John only leads his girlfriend to the couch away from his flatmate.

Mrs. Hudson turns to John. “Is Jocelyn coming? I’ve got a gift wrapped for her,” she smiles.

John looks at the time and frowns, knowing that since Lestrade is here, surely Jocelyn is on a break as well. “Mm, not sure. Hopefully, she’ll come.”

Sherlock is barely aware of how attentive he suddenly became. Due to the balance of probability, it’s evident how Jocelyn may not make it. He glances at the door and almost sighs. “Oh, dear _Lord_.”

Molly walks inside with a coat wrapping her frail body from the cold, holding a few shopping bags with gifts in them. “Hello, everyone! Sorry, hello. Uh, it said on the door just to come on up,” she says, and John grins at her, helping with the bags.

They all say hello to her while Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Everybody saying hello to each other, how wonderful!” He sarcastically mutters to himself.

Molly shrugs off her coat and makes everyone surprised, even Lestrade who gapes at her. “Having a Christmas drinkies, then?”

“No stopping them, apparently,” Sherlock says.

Small talk happens, of course, and Sherlock only focuses on his computer. He complains to John about the blogger having a photo of him with the hat, looking incredibly awful. Sherlock doesn’t know why, but something didn’t feel right about tonight. Something was missing. He’s not sure what, but maybe it’s because he’s quite used to being alone for Christmas, and now he has many people inside his flat. John tells Sherlock to shut up after deducing that Harry is still not sober, and he moves onto Molly.

Of course, it’s not Sherlock if he completely ruins something for someone else, in this case, his Christmas gift from Molly. He doesn’t know what came over him to suddenly assumes that Molly has something planned out for her nonexistent boyfriend. Molly is so close to tears, but she manages to hold them back. “You always manage to say horrible things,” she says, and Sherlock gulps while rereading the small note on the gift. “Every time, always.” She trails off.

 _Apologize, Sherl. Please, apologize to her. You hurt her feelings, and it’s Christmas._ He hears her voice and makes him look down at his feet. He hesitates, turning his body away from Molly, but decides to actually apologize. He takes a deep breath. “I am sorry. Forgive me.” He starts, startling the people in the room. He steps forward. “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock leans down and kisses her cheek, something he used to do quite often to someone else. From that fact alone, he knows that other people would feel better.

Then, of course, the moment was ruined by Sherlock’s text alert. It startles Molly, not sure if it really came from her as she tries defending herself. John squints his eyes. “Fifty-seven.”

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock absently asks, reading the text and immediately glances towards the fireplace.

“Fifty-seven of those texts, the ones I’ve heard.” John says.

The detective gave him an odd look. “Thrilling that you’ve been counting.” He sees a gift, tied with a rope. Sherlock immediately knows that it’s from the Woman, knowing how a rope can be used during sex and the Woman loved playing mind games. “Excuse me.”

He ignores John, proceeding to his bedroom where he opens the box and feels his own face relax. Sherlock takes the dearest camera phone and inspects it to see if it’s the real one, and confirms it inside his head. He slowly makes a deduction, one that he never thought would occur given the certain characteristics of Miss Adler being a very clever woman. He does what he immediately thinks of; reaching for his own phone a dialing a number he always memorized but never saved. He waits for a response and closes his eyes at the voice of his brother. “Oh, dear Lord. We’re not having Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?” He mocks. Sherlock frowns at his words, recalling how they did much much more than Christmas phone calls or whatever he mentioned.

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.”

 _“We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out; it hardly matters.”_ Sherlock can hear the soft crackling of firewood in the background.

“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.” He quietly says to him just before hanging up. Sherlock pulls himself on his feet and goes to John, seeing him by his bedroom door.

“Are you okay?” His flatmate asks.

Whenever Sherlock is asked of that question, he always feels compelled to say yes. “Fine. I need a drink.” He tells his friend, walking past him back to the kitchen to pour himself some scotch now. He keeps thinking of the dangerous camera phone just sitting on his nightstand at this moment as he brings the glass to his lips and sipping. And his mind eventually wanders to Irene Adler, whom he assumed is dead on a slab in some morgue. He frowns at the thought, knowing how much of a loss her intelligence can be. Sherlock is never one to hold grudges so he definitely didn’t resent Irene for injecting him with some unknown substance. Still he applauds how closely clever she was as him. Shame.

A small knock on the door took everyone’s attention and made them look up, seeing the small and sheepish young lady wearing her long-sleeved midnight blue dress. Sherlock pauses his movements, eyes on her the entire time as John comes up to greet her with a hug and helping her with the shopping bag as well, seeing how there’s a bottle of champagne tucked in there. Mrs. Hudson embraces her and Lestrade offers her a glass of wine, smiling.

Molly hugs her as well, delighted to see her. The two of them got along quite well, and they see each other often whenever Jocelyn brings up a new body for a post-mortem, although, that would not be a great place to establish a friendship. Sherlock falters his movements, not sure which he should drink; his scotch or the sight of her.

She anxiously chuckles. “So sorry, I’m late. Difficult to get cabbie at this weather.” She softly says, and Sherlock still sees the slight shiver she had that no one else can notice. Why is he so focused on her? He diverts his attention back to his drink.

Dr. Watson takes the champagne bottle. “It’s fine, let’s pop this open, shall we?” John gestures at Lestrade to help him in the kitchen.

Jocelyn sees Sherlock at the corner near the window, drinking silently. She hesitates, but approaches him. “Hey,”

Sherlock looks up and pretends as if he never noticed her come in. “Oh, hello.” He mutters, trying his best to keep his eyes on her face and not her whole body, which would make him appear very human, he dislikes it.

“I got you something.” She reaches inside her pocket and takes a small pack. Sherlock knots his brows at her, glancing at the shopping bag she dropped near the couch Mrs. Hudson was sitting on. Why was his gift separated from everyone else’s?

Sherlock looks back at her, seeing the way Jocelyn extends her arm to let the wrapped gift within his reach. He slowly takes it from her hands, seeing the way they’re visibly shaking. _Clearly nervous, nervous of what? My reaction about the gift?_ He doesn’t see John watching the two of them with a small smile on his face, but he really hopes that Sherlock won’t mess this one up, not like with Molly earlier. Sherlock rips open the small pack, pulls out a pen, immediately recognizing it, and widens his eyes.

Jocelyn smiles. “I, um… I found it in one of my moving boxes,” _Labeled as ‘Sherlock’._ She thinks to herself. “I thought you might want it back,”

Sherlock is unable to hold back the smile and the short chuckle. John raises his brows from the distance, it really _is_ Christmas. “Astonishing how you still have it.” He hums, twisting the object in his fingers.

Mrs. Hudson hears the two speaking and turns her head. “Still have what, dear?” She asks.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Jocelyn brushes her off. “It’s just the first science project he made during High School.”

John slowly walks toward them to view the object, not wanting to question it. Lestrade squints his eyes over it while drinking the champagne that Jocelyn brought. “A pen? You made a pen in High School?” Greg asks.

“You make me sound like a half-wit, Gavin. Measure your words carefully.” He huffs. “It’s not an ordinary fountain pen. It can emit a signal that can cause momentary paralysis by affecting the chemicals within the brain, disrupting the nervous system.” He casually explains to everyone, and John only raises his brows at the man. “Robotics during High School was drastic, and the judges disproved of my work. Saying that it was dangerous.” He trails off

John glances at Jocelyn to frown. “You had this in your pocket on the way here?”

She bit her lip and shrugs. “It didn’t go off, so…” Jocelyn just smiles at them before sipping her wine, proceeding to give the others their gifts. Mrs. Hudson is ecstatic upon receiving discount coupons for household items and a new dress. John dryly laughs at Jocelyn when she gives him a brown sweater similar to what he currently is wearing. She gives Molly a lipstick kit, to which she seemed quite pleased. As for Lestrade, he receives a New Year’s Eve dinner reservation for him and his wife at a great restaurant, since apparently they just got back together—even though Sherlock disagrees.

He starts to wonder how everyone’s gift seemed to have no emotional attachment from Jocelyn whatsoever, unlike his gift. His gift would appear to be quite odd unless he explains it. Sherlock wonders if Jocelyn remembers the day he gave the pen to her, because regrettably, he does.

When John remains in the kitchen to speak with his girlfriend and Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to take something from her flat, Sherlock sighs and picks up his violin. Jocelyn is standing by the window, watching the snowfall from the sky.

The consulting detective notices how she’s in deep thought, clearing his throat. “I’m confident to say that Mrs. Hudson might wear that dress first thing tomorrow.” Sherlock starts a conversation, which surprises Jocelyn, although she composes herself instantly.

She laughs a bit, shaking her head. “I won’t hold it against you if she doesn’t.” She slowly sinks into the sofa and leans herself on the rest, still staring outside of the window.

Sherlock cleans his violin with its rag, catching himself staring at Jocelyn for too long. He pauses, unsure if he should just ask her. He almost scoffs at his shaking hands, hating the way he’s clearly affected by her. Not after what she’s done, he should feel very angry. He should have not accepted the gift; it may have led her to believe that he’s forgiven her. Or even worse, that Sherlock cares enough to hold a grudge. The last thing he wants is for Jocelyn to assume that things are happening when clearly, nothing is. He inhales “Jocelyn,”

She cranes her neck to look at him, the light from outside makes half of her face illuminate. “What?”

“The pen, why did you still have it?” He calmly asked. “It was years ago.”

“I know,” she nods, smiling a bit. “Couldn’t throw it out, who knows who’ll take it,” she gives him teasing looks, almost making him smile.

 _What was happening to him? Why is he pretending everything was okay? Why is he slowly being all right with her presence in the flat? Is it because she finally moved out?_ Sherlock has so many questions, enough to make his head hurt. _Sherlock, calm down, you can’t lose it right now._

He breathes through his nose and nods. “If it’s of any consolation, I… quite appreciate the gesture. Thank you, I think.” He quietly says, immediately playing his violin to prevent any words coming from her mouth that might make him regret thanking her.

Jocelyn only smiles at him, watching the man turn around and move along with the music. In her head, she’s telling him that it’s her pleasure.

Sherlock’s phone beeps, with a normal text alert this time. He puts abruptly stops playing and reaches for the phone from inside his pocket. He unlocks the phone and reads the text from his brother, slowly feeling agitated. Jocelyn watches him, seeing how his expression changes from contentment to annoyance. Before he could slip his phone back to his pocket, it starts to ring. He sighs through his mouth and accepts the call, pressing the device to his ear. “I’m on my way. And no, I’m _not_ bringing her.”

“You’re quite too late, brother mine.”

Just before he could respond, Jocelyn’s phone starts ringing inside her coat. Her small smile fades a bit as she glances at Sherlock, who visibly looks bothered. She gets up and takes her phone from the pocket, answering the call. “Hello?”

“Fray, we need you in the lab. Body’s been appointed to your forensics team and Dr. Hooper’s post-mortem,” she hears the voice of someone who works at the precinct.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, sighing to make it clear to his brother that he’s quite done with him. “Really?” He speaks into the phone.

“Convenience, working to our advantage, dear brother. I’ll see you in St. Bartholomew’s.” Mycroft hangs up on him, making Sherlock glare into his phone. Molly appears back upstairs from Mrs. Hudson’s, holding her phone as well as she and Jocelyn gather their coats and bid goodbye to John and Jeanette. With Sherlock wordlessly leading in front of them.

It isn’t until Jocelyn has all her equipment; gloves, cameras and some boxes to put more evidence in, since the body has to be taken away to St. Barts. Sherlock watches her work, clearly impressed at how quick and precise she is. Of course, it’s Jocelyn. She wants and needs everything to be done quickly yet accurately. Jocelyn still hasn’t seen the body, only the place it had been and the objects surrounding it.

Now, Sherlock is walking to the morgue with his brother, opening the door and entering, only to see a body laid on the slab with a long white cloth covering it. Dr. Hooper and Jocelyn are both near the body, a bit chilled from the weather.

“The only one who fitted the description.” Mycroft mocks a smile. “Had her brought here, your home from home.” He indicates the hospital itself, knowing how Sherlock spends a lot more time here whenever he’s off a case.

Sherlock looks towards Jocelyn and Molly. “You both didn’t need to come in,” he muttered, glancing at his brother with a glare knowing how he pulled some strings for this to happen, to both of Jocelyn and Molly’s inconvenience.

Molly nervously smiles at Sherlock. “That’s okay. Everyone else was busy with Christmas,” she softly says, aware that her boss believed that she could work since she never really goes out much. Although, Jocelyn lets out a small yawn, clearly tired and in need of sleep. Sherlock frowns, glancing at the dark circles from under her eyes, stopping himself from reading her any further. “The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult.” She unveils her face and the other three observes her. Jocelyn doesn’t flinch, quite used to seeing bodies since she’s a Forensic Analyst for homicide cases.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Mycroft begins; a bit unsure since he has never came face to face with her.

Sherlock ignores him. “Show me the rest of her.” He tells Molly, who awkwardly smiles before pulling the sheet off her until her knees. Sherlock scans her body and keeps the measurements inside his mind. Jocelyn tilts her head at him in confusion before her lips part in realization. Sherlock looks up at Molly. “That’s her.” He simply says and walks off.

Mycroft pauses; analyzing his words and feels his own mouth open in surprise. He snaps back to reality. “Thank you, Miss Hooper—”

“Who is she?” Molly immediately asks, not even acknowledging the gratitude she received and instantly went to what just happened. “How did Sherlock recognize her from… not her face?”

Jocelyn can feel her stomach twist, seeing the way Mycroft looks at her with those knowing, but puzzled eyes. It’s not every day one can get to the the look of confusion on Mycroft Holmes; he always seems to know everything. Except this. Naturally, all of them assumed that Sherlock had slept with a woman. It still doesn’t explain why Jocelyn suddenly can feel her heart cave in. Mycroft offers Molly a smile that appears to be inauthentic, nodding at Jocelyn as if to say he’s leaving.

The two women both hear the door close. One is desperately still clinging to the feeling of love no matter how unrequited, the other is confused and unsure of what she’s feeling. Both of them refer to the same man.

Sherlock hears the door open from behind him, knowing that it’s his brother. He sees a cigarette from the corner of his eye, looking at it for a second. “Just the one.”

“Why?”

Mycroft smiles, trying his hardest to make it not appear genuine. “Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock slowly smirks at it, taking the stick. He tries his best not to be reminded of the time another person offered him a cigarette, when they thought he was feeling down. On second thought, do people just offer him a cigarette whenever he feels the chemicals in his brain altering in order to make him feel despondency? If that’s the case, then this situation may not fit the cigarette. “Smoking indoors, isn’t there one of those… those _law_ things?”

Mycroft lights the cigarette for him, and Sherlock takes a deep breath before exhaling it. “We’re in a morgue. There only so much damage you can do.” He says. “How did you know she was dead?”

“She had an item in her possession. One she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up.” He concludes, taking another drag of his cigarette.

His brother sighs. “Where is this item now?”

His question is left unanswered as they both hear a family to their left, weeping over a probable dead family member. Sherlock frowns. “Look at them. They all care so much.” He says with so much spite. “Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” The way he asked this was so casual, but the question had so much depth, so much unanswered questions, and so much _pain._

“All lives end, all hearts are broken.” Mycroft chooses not to answer his question, but in his mind, he screams _yes, I do wonder that quite often, Sherlock._ “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

The consulting detective can sense how deep this conversation is getting, not wanting it to go too far. He coughs out the smoke, cringing. “This is low tar.”

“Well, you barely knew her.” Mycroft claims, making his younger brother scoff, walking off to the other direction.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And a Happy New Year.” He watches his brother leave before looking behind him to the door that leads to the morgue. He hesitates, but sighs as he shakes his head and enters the room once again. He sees Jocelyn scribbling into her notebook while viewing the body, a frown on her face. She looks up to see Mycroft, raising her brows since she thought he had left.

“Um, hey,” she says in a confused manner. “Thought you left already.”

“I assume that you’re as confused as I imagine you to be.” Mycroft stands by the corpse that is covered from her lower half, looking down at it and finding himself feeling puzzled as well, but not enough for him to admit.

Jocelyn bites her lip, glancing at the body she was viewing. “No, I… I’m not confused. I’m just working.” She mutters, more quietly than she had expected. Jocelyn didn’t want to think of how Sherlock apparently had slept with this Adler woman. It’s not that she never thought of him to be one of those people who had sexual cravings; people change overtime, do they not? She didn’t quite understand why this affected her so much, she should not care at all. Not unless…

Her face reddens at the thought, almost feeling her stomach physically drop from her belly. Mycroft raises a brow at her. “Really?”

She locks her gaze with him for a second, being silent for a moment until she takes a deep breath. Her eyes are tired. “Why would it bother me?”

Mycroft tilts his chin up, looking quite elegant as usual. “Why would it not?”

His words struck through her, and now she’s unable to respond. It makes the man frown, his suspicions only being confirmed. Jocelyn is definitely affected by this, as most humans would be if it were about someone very close to them, someone they care about. He watches her contemplate over her thoughts for a second, before speaking. “I told you to leave Baker Street, yet you decided to spend Christmas there.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “I didn’t want to be alone for Christmas.”

“I’m well-aware.” He hints upon the one Christmas she spent at a specific place close to Mycroft. It makes the corner of her lips twitch upwards into a ghost of a smile. He didn’t need her verbal agreement to know how much she still deeply cares about Sherlock, even while suppressing it constantly for the benefit of both parties. The elder Holmes may be cold and unloving towards many people, but he never fails to see the sentiment. Although, regrettably, he still doesn’t understand why people go through the stress of sentiment. Still, he cannot control people, as much as he’d like to. To him, he’ll always be the most intelligent one in the room, no matter how he respects a few selected people, such as Jocelyn Fray. “It would be best for you to continue your work the following day, you’re much needed in Baker Street.”

She furrows her brows, closing her notebook. “Why?” Confused, she watches him with a suspicious expression. Didn’t he just say that she should leave John and Sherlock’s flat?

Mycroft checks the time. “I believe Christmas Eve isn’t over yet, not for another three hours.” He simply says. “And John needs your assistance.”

“For what?”

He only offers her a small smile, hooded eyes. “You’ll see. Good evening, Miss Fray.” He nods before turning back around to exit the room, leaving Jocelyn alone in the morgue, still feeling anxious and puzzled as she usually is.

Mycroft stands outside the morgue, dialing John’s number. “Have you found anything?”

“No, did he take the cigarette?” John nervously asks.

Mycroft regrettably informs him with a sigh. “Yes.”

“Shit.” He says under his breath, turning to look at Mrs. Hudson. “He’s coming, ten minutes.”

“There’s nothing in the bedroom.” Mrs. Hudson looks quite anxious as well, shaking her head.

“Well, it looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual places.” John informs the elder Holmes. “Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?”

“No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.” Mycroft tells him.

John frowns. “But, I’ve got plans.”

Mycroft stops walking. “No,” he lowly says before leaving St. Barts.

When Sherlock comes back, he stops right at the door, looking around the flat just as John glances up from his seat to ask him if he’s okay. Sherlock can still smell the lingering perfume that a certain person always wears, and he pushes it out of his senses. He immediately realizes how John and Mrs. Hudson have been going through his things to check if he’s been clean or not, muttering about how John better have not ruined his sock index this time.

\--

When the celebration rolled by, Jocelyn found herself standing in front of a mirror, shaking her head at the yellow floral dress she’s wearing. She looked awful, but knowing Sherlock, she knew he wouldn’t mind. Her hair is done in a bun, strayed away from her line of vision. She was currently in her flat, turning off the lights and patting the head of her cat lovingly. Jocelyn asked her neighbor to watch over her pet, so she could leave for a few weeks. She heard the buzz of her doorbell, making her grin and gather her bags to the door. Jocelyn quickly grabbed her coat as she opened the door and saw Sherlock in a white button-up, standing straight as if he stiffened at the sight of her.

Jocelyn brushes down her dress and pushes the stray strands of her hair away from her line of sight. She reaches to her left and takes her suitcase, finally looking up at Sherlock who was still staring at her. She bites her lip, face flushing like a high school girl. Of course, she knows for sure that she should not think more about it. “Is this okay? Not too much? I don’t want to freak out your family.”

Sherlock softened, seeing the concern she had over making a good impression upon meeting his parents. “You look… physically pleasing to the eye.” He clears his throat, leaning down to carry her suitcase to the car waiting. Jocelyn suppresses a grin and feels her heart race, ignoring it as she shuts the door behind herself and letting the keychain of her set of keys twirl around her finger. Sherlock slipped the case into the trunk, glancing to his left to see Jocelyn taking the passenger’s seat. He went around the car and took the driver’s seat, bring the car back to life. Jocelyn smiles at him, adoring him with every cell in her body and she’s not even aware of it.

“You look rich, posh boy.” Jocelyn teased him, reaching over to touch the collar of his white buttoned shirt while he was driving. It made Sherlock muster a small smile, a bit amused with her choice if words. It’s quite true, Sherlock did not want to lie. With a Mathematician of a mother and a father running a big company, one would generally assume the children to be raised well in a great and efficient environment. Although, sometimes it makes Sherlock wonder how his life story reflects with his anti-social personality.

“Mm, you’re only envious. It’s not my fault you’re poor.” He grinned, the rare dents on his cheeks were showing when he felt Jocelyn slapping his arm in an incredulous way, but clearly not in an offended way even though the situation with her proprietor is getting a bit stressful, and she knew that Sherlock is aware of this.

“My, my, Sherlock, not quite you to show off how rich you are. Maybe when we graduate, I’m assuming you’d own a big mansion in the future.” She leaned back into her seat, but quickly leans forward to reach for the radio and letting Sherlock’s car music— _usually classical pieces_ —fill the car.

Sherlock knotted his brows together, but he did not have a sour expression on his face. He looks quite relaxed and content with the way his life is going now. “A mansion? Oh, no.” He scoffed.

She grinned, shifting in her seat as she turned the volume of the radio down a bit. “Why not?”

“Mansions are too big. I do not want a constant reminder of how alone I am in the future.” He looked over to Jocelyn, his words are meant to be as a joke but they come across quite serious and Sherlock didn’t even realize, keeping his eyes on the road.

Jocelyn’s smile faded. She was at loss for words for a second, not until Sherlock looked over, concerned why she suddenly decided not to speak. He feared that he might have said something wrong that put her off. “You don’t think you’d be with someone in the future? A relationship or even a friendship?” Jocelyn raised her eyebrows.

Sherlock paused for a moment, hands on the steering wheel. “Be honest; who would want me as their flatmate?” He asked, most likely as a rhetoric question, although…

“I wouldn’t mind it,” she didn’t hesitated on answering, giving him a shrug when he looked over at her for another second, frowning with confusion. “And I’m sure someone won’t mind you as well. I can’t be the only one who’ll understand your little antics,” she smiles.

 _Understands me, yes. Jocelyn does understand me._ He thought to himself, slowly grinning. “I still don’t believe it. No one can tolerate me.” He insisted.

“If no one can, then how do I?” She argues, but in a soft manner, glancing outside the car window and seeing snow everywhere.

“Because you’re different,” he simply said. “Different in a way that you try to understand me and help me understand you. We’re a team,” this was the first time he admitted this and he was aware of that, which made him want to see her reaction.

And of course, she looked absolutely stunned, yet proud. Overflowing with happiness as he drove both of them to a venue in their hometown.

The sun is setting by the time they arrived, and she looked out of the window to view how simple yet elegant the venue was. Jocelyn grabbed the gift she was planning to give, excitedly exited the car and waited for Sherlock to walk with her inside. Moreover, this was when Jocelyn met Sherlock’s mother. It was at that moment when she realized just how nervous she was to make a good impression from his parents.

“Sherlock!” His mother sighed in complete joy, opening her arms for her son to step into. Sherlock did not hesitate in leaning down to hug his mother, giving her a soft kiss on her cheek. “It’s so good to have you back for Christmas,” she grinned, and he nodded back. His mother glanced behind him, seeing the woman. She was surprised, having been too focused on her son being back home to even notice the petite woman he brought with. “And who’s this?” She smiled.

Jocelyn stepped forward and awkwardly waved, extending her arm to give the small gift in a box, it was obviously wrapped at the convenience store she visited. “Hi, I’m Jocelyn. Sherlock’s friend.” The young lady sheepishly said, a bit nervous to meet her finally.

Of course, Jocelyn had seen Sherlock’s parents during the performance, but did not have a proper conversation outside the school. His mother looked quite pleased, thanking her for the gift and felt flattered by how Jocelyn complimented the gathering. Sherlock glanced at Jocelyn, eyes soft and almost glowing. He felt ecstatic, seeing the way his mother seemed very interested in his friend. Sherlock can definitely say that his mother is surprised to see her at such an important event. He cleared his throat. “I performed with her, during the concert. You do remember, mother, don’t you?”

Mrs. Holmes let put a hum, before she chuckled and nodded. She apparently appears to have remembered her face, since she looked quite familiar ever since her eyes were set upon the younger woman. “You doubt me too much, Sherlock, dear. How can someone forget about a person with such unique hair?” She teased before she wrapped her arm around her son’s, squeezing his forearm affectionately. Jocelyn watched the interaction with a warm heart. From the scene alone, Jocelyn knew how much Sherlock loved his mother. “Jocelyn, I’m very grateful that you’re here for the celebration. Mycroft is out there somewhere; he didn’t exactly inform anyone that you’ll be attending with Sherlock, here.” She began walking after letting go of her son’s arm, leading them inside the building. “I do apologize for the ride, our hometown is quite far from Central London.” Mrs. Holmes sincerely apologizes to Jocelyn, as if it was her fault. If anything, Jocelyn should be apologizing for intruding such a significant family event.

Apparently, the party was being held at the back of the building, near the gardens. The Holmes Family really loved the open area for the occasions.

Sherlock didn’t have any time to think about it as he reached for Jocelyn’s hand, leading her to where his mother was going. Jocelyn was stunned, looking up to see Sherlock’s calm and collected face. Slowly, their fingers interlaced and it made Jocelyn tilt her head to the side in order to hold back a smile. However, of course, she failed to do so, feeling her lips curl up. The doors that lead outside opened, and Jocelyn almost gasped at how beautifully designed the garden was. It perfectly fitted the occasion and Jocelyn grinned at Sherlock, who appeared to be quite pleased. There were a lot of people already, chatting and greeting one another. Sherlock naturally assumed that most of the people here work with either of his parents, and some are acquaintances made by his older brother.

She squeezed his hand as they make their way towards Sherlock’s father, who looked delighted upon seeing his youngest son. “Ah! There you are!” His father pulls him in for a hug and Jocelyn felt the boy’s fingers slip from hers. She silently smiled, watching as his father praised him for being great in University. “Ah, and you must be Miss Jocelyn Fray from the auditorium, splendid work!” He shook her hand as she let out a short laugh. Jocelyn felt a bit more comfortable as Sherlock introduced her to his father, but Mr. Holmes recalled her almost immediately, and complimented her talent with playing the piano. Sherlock’s musical side definitely came from his father.

Mycroft casually strolled by right next to Jocelyn, whilst Sherlock was still speaking to their father and a few of his co-workers. He handed her a drink, and she looked quite taken since she didn’t expect him to just come up to her. Nonetheless, she took the drink and thanked him, sipping it to have a taste. The older Holmes gave her an amused expression. “Having fun?”

She nodded. “Of course, I am. I’ve never attended a party like this.”

He frowned, staring down at his drink. “You’ve never been to an anniversary party?”

“Haven’t been the luckiest when it came to families,” she turned her head to look at him. “But, this,” Jocelyn looked around the whole place, gesturing to the entirety of it. “This is beautiful. I’m really flattered that I got invited by you.”

 _By me?_ Mycroft questioned himself. _I did not invite her; Sherlock told me that he was going to ask her to come along. And I only said that it was no problem. That isn’t the same as actually inviting someone personally._ It suddenly dawns over at Mycroft, the face of realization took place. Slowly, a smile appeared on his face. “You’re quite welcome, Miss Fray. I’m glad you’re here.”

Jocelyn softly laughed. “I don’t think you’ll be too glad once you’ve invited me into your house.”

Mycroft smirked at her, glancing away the next half a second. “Be wise, Miss Fray. Your words can be weaponized. Careful.”

She squinted at him, unsure what he could mean. His Victorian era language still confused her, but she had gotten used to it now since Sherlock used it quite a lot. “Your family is very questionable.” She teased. “I’m honored to have met you.”

He hummed at the word ‘questionable’ and thought about it for a moment. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by his own chuckle. He shook his head in amusement of her. “You have no idea what is about to come, Miss Fray.”

The night went on and many had a few laughs shared as the married couple being celebrated shared their first dance for the night. The music kept playing, and while Jocelyn spoke to Sherlock’s mother and a few of her friends, Mycroft nears Sherlock. The eldest Holmes could sense how tense his little brother seemed to be, but still somehow appeared to be relaxed. He noticed how the youngest Holmes was staring quite longingly after Jocelyn. It would not take a blind man to see just how much Sherlock is conflicted with these normal but complex human emotions. Mycroft can’t imagine what’s going through Sherlock’s mind as of now, which was why he cleared his throat to catch his attention.

When Sherlock turned to him, his eyebrows rose in surprise. He went at ease, realizing that it’s only his brother. “What?” He questioned, to which Mycroft only chuckled at.

“Seems to me that dear mother is enjoying your… _female companion_.” He raised his glass to lightly sip at his drink, giving his brother a knowing look. “It looks as though she’s taken a liking on her. I don’t think she’ll be too opposed of the thought of having her spend Christmas here, do you?” Mycroft had a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock only scoffed, shaking his head at his brother. Although, that did not prevent the slight heat rising into the sides of his face. “I have no clue onto what you’re speaking about.”

Mycroft disregarded his words, leaning across only a little bit. He knew what Sherlock was thinking about and only said it aloud. “Go on, dance with her.”

His younger brother looked tremendously stupefied. He watched Mycroft for a second. “Are you quite well, brother mine? I thought for a second that you had too much to drink when in fact you haven’t gotten through two drinks with seven being your minimum around our parents. Have you had your head hit or something?” Sherlock incredulously looked at him with such surprise, but anxiety.

Mycroft mustered a grin. “Don’t be smart, Sherlock. We’re both quite aware what you want.”

He only grimaces at his older brother. “Now, that is just horrifying. Stay away from me.”

“With pleasure.” Mycroft lightly bows, quite teasingly as Sherlock suppresses a smile. The two brothers had a good relationship growing up. Of course, there would be a few fights here and there, but they always made up very soon, they wouldn’t even be aware of it. There were no competitions, no envy-blazed arguments nor resentments. Mycroft and Sherlock loved each other dearly, and Sherlock held him with much respect and admiration. It’s quite unclear how they became like _that_ only a few years later. Sherlock had a clue onto what happened, but he chooses not to dwell into it, even though he secretly misses the old ways with him and his brother.

And his brother was right, as always. It always bothered him that Mycroft was always right about him, but now is not the time to over think about it. Sherlock found himself glancing at Mycroft and giving him a curt nod before walking over to where his mother was speaking to Jocelyn about her boys and husband. Jocelyn had a fond smile on her face, enjoying his mother’s company and mini stories, of course. She was a talker, much like Sherlock once he gets comfortable. Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Hello,” he muttered.

His mother turned and felt delighted upon seeing her son. It was amazing to have him back again, and she never stopped thinking this. Jocelyn’s eyes lit up when Sherlock came to view, hands tangling together as she watched him. “Oh, my dear, I was just telling Jocelyn of your father’s lottery ticket from last week, I still haven’t found it!” She laughed off, but upon seeing the way her son had his eyes on the lady, she quieted down and suppressed a wide grin. “I better find your father before he gets all tipsy again,” she patted Sherlock’s arm and slowly slipped away.

Sherlock blinked and looked down at the ground, mouth opening but no words came out. Jocelyn only tried her best not to smile too widely to the point of being actually creepy. She felt nervous and didn’t exactly know why. The man cleared his throat awkwardly, and her heart warmed. “I don’t suppose, you’d, um” Sherlock begun, but trailed off in a lost manner. He had never asked someone to dance. If anything, the only woman he ever danced with was his mother, and admitting it would be embarrassing. Sherlock may not understand why it’s embarrassing, but to his knowledge, any other normal human being would be humiliated upon the revelation of that fact. Jocelyn didn’t want to giggle at Sherlock’s poor request for them to dance. “I don’t suppose you’d—”

“Like to dance?” She finishes of him, already reaching for his cold hand. Sherlock is startled by how warm and calm her hands are compared to his. His hands were shaking in anxiety probably, but when Jocelyn held him, he found himself relaxing. Sherlock nodded at her, a worried look on his face as if he might disappoint her. He doesn’t, of course. Jocelyn only smiled at him, lacing their fingers together as she led them to the dance floor, which was actually just grass with lights above them. Some people were partnered up and dancing as well, but it seemed as if they were the only ones who still classified their relation as a friendship.

Sherlock visibly swallows when Jocelyn stopped walking, planting her feet in front of him and slowly reaching upwards to slide her palms across his shoulders, and settling on his nape. Jocelyn looked at him with so much adoration, it was impossible to miss. Nevertheless, as usual, Sherlock didn’t see. He felt too focused on where he’s supposed to put his hands. He’s a skilled dancer, but now that Jocelyn is here, it seemed as though everything he knew about waltzing was thrown out of the window. Sherlock cleared his throat, looking around them for a second, only to see some people staring at them. His gazes made Jocelyn view the people as well, feeling at home here in his hometown. He didn’t quite comprehend it, but the faces were beaming at them. Maybe because they knew how Sherlock is and it was nice to see him put himself out there once in a while.

She noticed him being so tense, and only laughed. “Sherlock, don’t be nervous.”

“People are looking.”

“Since when did you care about what other people thought?” Jocelyn’s thumbs brushed against his the line of his jaw.

Sherlock directed his attention back to her, blue eyes glinting under the light. They gazed at each other for a moment before both of them grinned widely, feeling overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness as they swayed to the jazz music. She found himself leaning closer until her hand was in his, and the other on his shoulder. Her temple was against his chest, closing her eyes for only a short moment and just living in the moment.

Sherlock’s mother stood next to her eldest son, both of which were watching the youngest Holmes and his, well, Mrs. Holmes would say ‘his first love’ but she was clearly sure that both parties are neither aware of it. Mrs. Holmes glanced at her eldest son, sighing a bit as a smile played on her lips. “Do you think they’re together, Mycroft?”

“No,” he answered almost immediately, not even giving it a second thought.

Mrs. Holmes only let out a soft laugh, almost in tears as she watched her son. “I have never seen him this happy, Mycroft. Look at him.” She almost clutched her chest, feeling how warm it suddenly became. When Sherlock left home to go to University, he was completely opposed to the idea of going to school surrounded by people he knew that he would never try to get to know. Sherlock was almost so sure that he will never find a friend, but here he is, and he found something much more than that. His mother was ecstatic and she adored Jocelyn in more ways than she can ever imagine. Mrs. Holmes knew that Jocelyn paved way for Sherlock to see how special he is, because he really is special and needs to be reminded of it.

“I am.” Mycroft simply said. He could see how happy his brother is, even when Sherlock is not aware of how immensely joyful his own expression looks like.

Mrs. Holmes, as happy as she is, she’s quite terrified at the same time. Her smile wavered a bit as she glanced worriedly at her eldest son. Sherlock is a fragile being, even though he appears to be quite the opposite. This is why his mother immediately thought of what will happen if all of this vanishes. If ever his heart is broken, Mrs. Holmes cannot imagine what will happen to her son.

Mycroft looked at his mother, sighing. “Worrying won’t do you any good, mother. Today is a special day for our family, and it’s best not to over think situations. Our dear Sherlock is happy, you and father are happy; everything will be fine.” He reassured her.

“Do you think this is it? Do you think Sherlock will be happy this way?” She questioned, unsure of her own answer and so she consults one of the smartest people she knew.

He paused, eyes on his mother for a second before he glanced at the two laughing duo with their hands around each other while they danced and made fun of different things. This has been the longest that anyone has ever seen Sherlock smile in a genuine manner. Everyone was delighted to see the youngest Holmes son be this incredibly happy, it was a heartwarming sight. Mycroft slowly formed a smile on his face, feeling his own chest fill with joy upon seeing his brother this way. And with a short intake of the cold air around him, he says,

“Hopefully, yes.”

\--

Jocelyn arrives in Baker Street, exiting her cab and rubbing her hands to generate a bit of warmth. Snowflakes settle itself on the top of her head and upon her eyelashes as she walks to the front door to knock. Mrs. Hudson opens the door for her and frowns worriedly, letting her come up the stairs. She finds John sitting on his usual chair as he stares ahead of himself. She glances around the room for a brief moment, stepping forward. “What happened?” She asks, catching John’s attention.

He sighs, palm pressed against the side of his face as his elbow places itself on the rest of the chair. “It’s Sherlock. We’re not sure if he’s clean or not. I’m getting worried.” He mutters, looking quite distressed over his friend.

She frowns, dropping her bag on the nearest table and sitting on the couch. Jocelyn is very much aware of how Sherlock uses cigarettes, but never drugs. The way John worded his sentence could mean that it’s not only cigarette he uses. She does recall him saying he can’t imagine himself using recreational drugs since he does not want his mind to get even worse. The thought of him using drugs to destroy his body and mind only made her weaken. It only makes her regret the time she gave him a cigarette. “Why would you think that he’s not clean?”

Simple as it is, John answers quite quickly. “The Woman is dead,”

Jocelyn pauses. “The Woman?”

He realizes his mistake of not telling her about the Woman. “Irene Adler.”

She relaxes. “The woman I brought to the morgue not too long ago?”

“Yes. She’s known as the Woman apparently,” John trails off, still thinking about how he could help his friend who is feeling loss at the moment. John is quite sure that Sherlock knows what loss is, just not the feeling of it. Emotional attachment does that to everyone.

Jocelyn slowly nods. “Why would Sherlock resort to recreational drug use for that reason? Not to be insensitive for the dead,” John glances at her, realizing how practical she is about death. “But… it’s Sherlock.” Jocelyn finishes, knowing how her reason makes sense. “Is it because she drugged him? Did it involve that?

Dr. Watson bit his lip. “I think Sherlock and Irene had something going on,” he mumbles, but she hears it. “I don’t know, but I do know this is happening because of her.”

She blinks slowly, feeling her heart slow down. Jocelyn takes a deep breath, looking at the wooden floor for a moment. Jocelyn immediately feels awful, convincing herself that this isn’t about her. This is about Sherlock’s loss of an important woman in his life. She gathers herself together and looks to John, feeling how stressed he is over this. The two men did not deserve this kind of Christmas together, and to Jocelyn’s knowledge, this is their first Christmas since they met on January. Jocelyn stands up, pushing aside her own selfish feelings of questionable envy and focused on John’s dilemma, settling her palms on his shoulders. “Talk to him.” She softly advises.

“It’s not really that easy to talk to Sherlock Holmes,” he rubs his temples with both hands. “Who knows what’s going through his head. Talking won’t get us anywhere with him.”

Jocelyn bites her lip. “Give him some time to grieve, it may be healthy for him to just be alone for a while.”

“What if you’re wrong?” John looks up, eyes filling with worry. “What if being alone is not exactly what he needs?”

“I get that you’re worried that he might relapse, I understand that. But maybe forcing him not to be alone will make things even more difficult.” She tells him, knowing how Sherlock might shut people out due to the emotions he feels. “I think we should trust him to decide for his own well-being. He’s grown, I’m sure he knows what to do with himself.” Not much of a reason, but Jocelyn has nothing else.

John sighs and gives her a nod, patting the back of her hand to comfort her as well. “You had a pretty long day, might be good for you if you go home, it’s not that late out.” He hesitates on saying, not wanting Jocelyn to think that she’s a burden to Sherlock. John is aware how Sherlock gets agitated whenever she’s around, even though the Army Doctor still doesn’t know why. Jocelyn understands, giving him a small smile. She’s too nice for this world, John thinks. It’s very difficult to imagine her as a ‘great danger’ as Mycroft once worded to Watson.

The moment the front door shuts behind the lady on the way out, the consulting detective softly pushes the door of his room shut, hearing the soft clicking of the lock. He frowns, hand still on the knob. The words he heard, it seemed as if she genuinely cared. However, how was he supposed to know? Sherlock can at least admit to himself how human emotions are not his field of expertise. He furrows his brows, moving back onto his mattress as he takes the camera phone off the nightstand to open it, only to be met by the same password unlock that he can never figure out.

When Jocelyn arrives home, she toes her shoes off and presses her palm against the switch, bringing light into the empty flat. She lets out as yawn, slipping her gloves and hat off, putting them on the table and hanging her coat behind the door. She takes a quick shower and dresses herself in pajamas, going to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. She keeps thinking of a specific detective as she sat on her sofa with a drink in her hand. While the rim of the glass touched her lips, she suddenly saw a ripple form on the wine. Jocelyn furrows her brows, watching the liquid inside her glass before she reaches up to her face, touching her cheeks to feel a wet trail. _No, no, no, this isn’t happening._

The next thing she knew were soft sobs rippling from her, sinking back into the softness of her sofa as she cried over caring too much over someone who can never forgive her.


	12. The Phone

John enters the flat, hearing the soft melody from Sherlock’s violin. The tune is solemn and full of emotions that the Doctor knew Sherlock lacks awareness of. It’s been a few days since the death of Irene Adler, things apparently went back to normal in regards to Sherlock except everyone around him felt differently. Sherlock’s antics were normal; never sleeps, never eats, always going through cases, playing his violin during the night or day— _everything was normal._

Except they weren’t. John felt as though something is different about Sherlock. He just couldn’t figure out what.

Mrs. Hudson walks inside, immediately checking the detective’s food intake. When she realizes that once again, Sherlock refuses to eat, she gives John a look of disappointment and worry while shaking her head. “Lovely tune, Sherlock,” she begins walking to the kitchen in order to throw away the cold food. “Never heard of that one before.”

John clears his throat, fixing the coat he was wearing as he watches his friend. “You composing?”

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t even change. “Helps me to think,” he writes on his sheets before continuing his playing.

Watson watches himself in the mirror as he adjusts his clothes, glancing back at his friend as he pauses to think of what he should say next. “What are you thinking about?” John already knows the answer, but does he really? Sherlock is a very complex individual, it would take Mycroft Holmes to understand him, but the eldest Holmes doesn’t even know how his younger brother functions.

Sherlock abruptly puts down his violin, pointing at the open laptop with such focus. “The counter on your blog is stuck in one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.” He points out.

The Doctor already was aware of this, glancing at the screen. “Yeah, it’s a bit faulty. Can’t seem to fix it.”

A smirk appears on Sherlock’s face. “Faulty, or you’ve been hacked and it’s a message,” He pulls out the phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, immediately typing in the number that shows on John’s hit counter, only to be greeted by an invalid beep and the text saying that he only has three attempts remaining. John looks at him for a second, seeing the flash of disappointment in the detective’s face. Sherlock slips the phone back in his pocket, annoyed. “Or just faulty.”

Watson steps aside when Sherlock turns to take his violin back, continuing the piece he had been writing. “Right, right. Well, I’m going out for a bit,” he informs his friend, who pays him no mind whatsoever as the melody of the solemn piece fills the room. John sighs, going to the kitchen in order to take his keys to the flat.

Mrs. Hudson appears to be so worried. She had been Sherlock’s only mother figure for the last few years and it’s quite heartbreaking to see her this way as well. To her, Sherlock is one dysfunctional son that she adores with all her heart despite of his unique characteristics. John presses his lips together. “Listen, has he ever had any kind of relationship lately or before I met him? Girlfriends, boyfriends?” John frowns, trying to connect this somehow to Irene Adler.

The old woman on scrunches her nose, unable to imagine him in any kind of relationship with anyone; it wasn’t like Sherlock to form a romantic bond with a person. “I don’t know.” She scrunches her nose, but relaxing upon realizing something else. “The only one that comes to mind is Jocelyn,”

John thinks about Jocelyn, wanting desperately to ask her how to handle situations like this. Maybe he should, maybe John should try to understand whatever it was that happened between Jocelyn and Sherlock. He hasn’t heard from her in a while, she’s apparently very busy with work. John really hope she’s not ignoring any of them. “Whatever Sherlock and Jocelyn had, it ended years ago.” John curiously says, not quite convinced by his own words. Another part of him is saying that it isn’t any of his business, but he’s a worried friend and John doesn’t know what to expect from Sherlock.

“Well, he could’ve been heartbroken by that as well, we may never know.” Mrs. Hudson inquisitively points out.

John sighs. “How can _we_ not know?” He seems to be frustrated.

Mrs. Hudson gestures towards the detective behind his back. “He’s Sherlock,” she simply says as if that already explains everything. And it does, in an odd way. It makes sense to John. “How can we ever know what goes on in that funny little head of his?”

John pulls a small smile to at least comfort the woman, nodding at her before he leaves the flat with the same rueful tune of Sherlock’s playing still ringing in his ears.

\--

Jocelyn fitted right in to the Holmes residence. Their home was warm and cozy, Jocelyn has never felt so welcome and at home. During the Christmas Eve dinner, many stories were exchanged. The laughter of each and every member of the family could still be heard even while Jocelyn was wiping the table. She smiled at the image of Sherlock reddening whenever his mother would offer an embarrassing story of him as a child. Even Mycroft couldn’t stop laughing. It was one of the most memorable Christmases that Jocelyn has ever experienced. The only unfortunate thing she could think of is that this Christmas, it wasn’t with her own family. In all honesty, she doesn’t mind.

“Oh, dear, you don’t have to wash up,” Mrs. Holmes patted her shoulder as the young lady let out a soft laugh, still continuing to wash the dishes.

She insisted. “It’s my pleasure. I’m a guest.”

“And that is exactly why you should stay out of my sink, young lady.” Mrs. Holmes teased, but made no move in stopping her. Jocelyn can be quite stubborn and she reminded Mrs. Holmes of her youngest son. Jocelyn smiled at her, now wiping the dishes with a cloth to dry them. The older woman looked around, knowing that her husband is in the living room with her eldest, and the youngest was inside his room trying to sort his things. She hesitated, but pushed herself to speak. “It’s very nice of you to come with Sherlock all the way here. I wasn’t expecting him to be home for Christmas.” She admitted.

Jocelyn craned her neck, looking at her friend’s mother with confusion. “Why not?”

“Oh, Sherlock can be a complicated young man. We sometimes could never understand what it is that he wants. It’s mostly why Mycroft suggested that he should try going to University.” She sighed, already helping the younger lady by sorting the plates neatly and putting them away. “I imagined him to be too wrapped up in science experiments to remember that it’s Christmas,” she joked, making Jocelyn laugh a bit. “So, thank you very much.”

“I don’t think you should thank me. He invited me here, it was his decision to come home.” Jocelyn pointed out to her, a smile on her face.

“Yes, of course. He wanted us to meet you, love.” Mrs. Holmes fondly smiled, finishing up in the kitchen while Jocelyn wipes her wet hands. Jocelyn blushed a bit, shaking her head in denial. “I want you to know that it’s been so long since I’ve seen my son that happy,” she begins. Jocelyn interjects softly, only to be cut off by a shake of a head. “I mean it, dear. You have no idea how happy a mother becomes upon seeing joy in their children’s faces.” She went to grab Jocelyn’s hands, startling her for a brief moment.

Mrs. Holmes warmly grins at her, already seeing her as her daughter. “You have to understand that it takes a very special person to understand Sherlock. And to be adored by Sherlock is quite a difficult task by which I respect you for.” She tells her, making the young woman let out a chuckle, still overwhelmed by how nice this family has been treating her. “However, to adore Sherlock is, well, one of the most difficult task one can ever face.” She sighs, aware of how different her children may be to other ordinary people. Sherlock is pretty closed off sometimes, it’s difficult to get to know him but once someone does… well, he can never stop talking.

Jocelyn blinks, looking down at the ground before she flashes a smile. “I can assure you, Mrs. Holmes; it’s not.” She simply said, finishing the conversation by making the older woman pull her in a tight embrace, letting her go after a few moments.

She went to the guestroom—Mycroft showed her the room after a small argument with his brother about the lab equipment. It was amusing, Mycroft not wanting Jocelyn to see how messy the room is. She slipped on her pajamas, tying her blue hair into a ponytail as she fluffs her pillows and fixes the sheets. A thud coming from the room opposite hers made her pause her movements and sit up straight, looking over her shoulder. She smiled to herself, knowing that the room across hers belonged to Sherlock— _she’s never seen his room_. Jocelyn made her way towards her door, exiting the room before knocking on the first door she saw. She waited for a few seconds, glancing to her left.

The door opened and revealed a distressed looking Sherlock, with the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, his tie was loosened and his cheeks were flushed. Jocelyn almost found his state amusing, although, she thought he looked absolutely mesmerizing. He slowly formed a smile, young lines near his eyes curled upwards upon seeing her, slowly fading after his smile reached its full extent. Jocelyn laced her fingers together and looked down at the ground. “I heard a noise, are you okay?” Her voice was soft.

Sherlock nodded, hesitating a bit before he gestured for her to walk inside his room. Just as expected, his room was very neat albeit the few open books on the ground. Encyclopedias, most probable. Jocelyn welcomed herself inside his room, hearing the boy close the door behind her. Sherlock walked in front of the girl and opened his arms as if to refer to his safe space within his home. “I dropped a few books.” He informed her, head tilting.

Jocelyn only stood in one place, arms wrapped around herself as she looked around, grinning to herself. She noticed two framed pictures of the Holmes siblings; one had them as young children and another seemed to have been taken just a few years ago. Jocelyn noticed two bookshelves; one was full of science-related almanacs and the other had literature, probably poetry and whatnot. Sherlock was fond of those things, she was aware. His walls were decorated with certificates during his high school days, as well as countless of medals. There was a poster for the periodic table that Jocelyn imagined Sherlock as a child, trying to memorize each one easily. It warmed her heart. “I like your room,” she teased. “It’s very—”

“Nerdy?” He finished for her, mocking the word since most people described him that way. It’s an awful word, in his opinion.

“I was going to say intellectual, but okay,” she let out a laugh, making him lowly chuckle as well, fiddling with the pen he found on his desk. Silence dawned over them for a minute, and Sherlock found himself looking at her, observing her. He remembered when they danced a few days ago, the way she laughed at the awful words that left his mouth. Awful? Jocelyn found them appalling, yet funny. Sherlock could remember the slight twisting of his stomach every time she spoke. It was odd. He remembered the way his whole family looked at Jocelyn as if she was the most astonishing person they have ever met, and that’s a lot to say considering how unique the Holmes children were. And she deserved to be treated that way, with so much respect and adoration. Sherlock remembered the conversation with his brother; he should ask Jocelyn. He should do this, he should push away all his fears and come clean with what he has to ask.

However, it was much easier said than done. Mycroft informed him that he knew what Sherlock wanted, but what was that exactly? What did Sherlock truly want?

He fixed his gaze on the girl in front of him, seeing the way she curiously stared back with uncertainty. “Jocelyn, I have something to ask you. I do hope you wouldn’t feel any type of intolerance upon my words,” He begun, making her slightly nervous.

She cleared her throat. “Okay, what is it?” Worry was laced around her voice.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, still uncertain if he should ask. “Were you being serious during the anniversary?”

She tilted her head. “Serious about the anniversary?” Jocelyn tilted her head in confusion.

Maybe that could have been worded a tad bit better. Sherlock sighed, hands a bit shaky. “That came out a bit wrong, uh,” He cleared his throat, fist positioning in front of his mouth for a second. “You said to my mother that we are friends, were you serious about that?” He asked, uncertainty was evident.

She relaxed, smiling a bit but her body is frozen. “Of course, Sherlock. Of course we’re friends,” Jocelyn remained in her place, eyes locked with his. “You still think we’re not friends? After two months, you still believe that?” Jocelyn is shocked to learn this. She could not believe her ears; the Sherlock she adored and supported still never saw them as friends. It broke her heart realizing how Sherlock still thought of himself as a person who can never be friends with anyone.

He frowned, a bit unsure of himself. “That’s exactly what I mean. I don’t think I believe that we’re friends,”

Jocelyn mirrored his frown. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, looking down at the pen he was holding in between his fingers. “Is there a chance that we may be,” he paused, looking for the correct word. “— _more_ than what you say we are?”

Jocelyn felt as though the world stopped revolving the minute his words reached her ears. Her breathing slowed down, or maybe she became much unaware of it. She stared at Sherlock, not sure how long she did so. She couldn’t find anything to say, nor do at this point. All she knew was that Sherlock somewhat admitted something that he may never take back; and that was a brave move.

Sherlock grew even more nervous the more time passed by with the girl being silent, he could feel the sweat forming on his forehead, the bile rising upwards his throat. Regret was slowly filling his body, but he knew he cannot take back what he said.

But, he became confused when the girl in front of him stepped forward and tilted her head upwards, eyes on him the entire time. Sherlock’s whole body is frozen, his breath hitching at his throat. He could not explain how magnetic she was, it was as if all he wanted was to hold her close, much like the time they danced together during his parents’ anniversary party. Jocelyn’s eyes were shining. She was the only person Sherlock could never completely read. One look at another person, he already knew everything. But Jocelyn, she was half an open book and half a mystery to him, it was bizarre.

Jocelyn seemed quite cautious. “I’m going to try something, and I want you to tell me immediately if you want me to stop, okay?”

Sherlock’s brows knotted together in confusion, realizing how she did not answer his question. “Okay.”

“Promise me,”

“I… promise.”

The corner of her lips curled up for a split second, and his heart was pounding the entire time, almost ringing in his ears until it’s all he could hear. Sherlock feared that Jocelyn might hear just how loud his heart was beating. She took another step forward, until her feet were just an inch away from the tip of Sherlock’s black shoes. He could feel her hot breath on his chin, and all he could do is observe her, watching the way she viewed him with a soft expression on her face. Suddenly, her lips parted and distracted Sherlock from her eyes, his gaze was now fixated on her pair of pink lips. Jocelyn raised on the tip of her toes, leaning in slowly until her lips were just brushing against his, their noses touching in the most affectionate way possible. She didn’t press down, though, which was something Sherlock was expecting since kissing needed physical contact. It didn’t occur to him how she was waiting for him to just lean in only a centimeter more to close the distance, wanting his consent to this.

“Sherlock,” she whispered under her breath.

He only blinked and gulped nervously, finally realizing what he wanted to do, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Jocelyn waited for him to stop her, but he didn’t. He wanted this so much, ever since she walked through that door and smiled at him after he made invasive deductions about her. He finally leaned in and pressed their lips together, eyes fluttering shut as they melted into each other’s bodies. Sherlock couldn’t hear his pulse racing, he couldn’t hear anything else. All he could do is _feel._ He could feel her, just her; and that was more than enough for him.

He reached up to cup her cheek, unsure what to do with his other hand. He could feel the young woman smiling against his lips, and it gave him a sudden rush, making him smile in return. It was such a pure moment for both of them, both tried to ignore their feelings for so long, and maybe— _just maybe_ —they’ll give each other a chance. They pulled away and Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, a small smile on his face. Jocelyn pressed her lips together, stepping back and feeling a mixture of amusement and worry. She reached for Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it a bit as he revealed his blue eyes to her, filled with immense happiness. “Goodnight,” she softly told him.

“Goodnight,” he nodded, clearing his throat and trying to recompose himself as if nothing very significant just happened.

Jocelyn almost giggled at him, flushed with the shyness of a young teenager bursting with happiness. She adored Sherlock for so long and to finally show it that way to him, Sherlock deserved the whole world. She turned around and left the room with a smile on her face, closing the door behind her and leaning her back against it, swooning over a boy like the young person she is. As soon as she left, Sherlock stopped trying to suppress his wide grin and just felt himself overflow with happiness and surprise. He never expected that to go that way, he expected her to be so appalled with the thought of being more than what they were supposed to be. He felt so great, Sherlock felt as if he could take on the world at that moment. He let out an amused scoff, turning around to pick up the books he dropped.

\--

The sound of a mournful tune of violin is fading while John walks out of the building. He closes the door with the knocker as he usually does and goes to walk down the sidewalk. He hears someone call out to him, making him turn around to see a woman dressed in black. John raises his brows in interest, listening to how she asks him if he had plans for this evening. Thinking that he’s being asked out, he feels convinced to stick around until a black car pulls over just next to them. John sighs in frustration, already believing that it’s Mycroft.

He’s driven to an abandoned warehouse, to which he complains about Mycroft’s power complex along the way. Thinking this was all Mycroft’s doing, John walks through the warehouse and takes a deep breath. “He’s writing sad music. Doesn’t eat,” he begins, loudly speaking so Mycroft can hear him. “Barely talks, only to correct the television,” John humorlessly states, looking around the place cluelessly. “I’d say he was heartbroken, but, uh, he’s Sherlock.” He makes known, as if that explains everything. A figure walks out from the corner, undetected by the Doctor. “He does all that anyway,” John slows down with speaking when he sees a familiar figure walking towards him.

Irene Adler, in the flesh, is _walking_ when she’s supposed to be dead on a slab around four days ago. “Hello, Dr. Watson.” She coolly greets him, and he remains frozen in his place, in disbelief that she faked her death.

She waits for him to speak, eyes sharp, alert and quite innocent-like despite her true nature. John blinks at her, not wanting to show how completely surprised he is. “Tell him you’re alive.”

Irene almost gives him a sigh. “He’ll come after me.”

“I’ll come after you, if you don’t.” He threatens, just wanting his best friend to be okay again. If Sherlock ever felt _anything_  for Irene Adler, then he at least deserves to know that she’s alive and well so that he could finally go back to normal. There are many things that John is not aware of, but right now, all he knows is that his grieving best friend is not in a good state compared to how he is before.

She hums, impressed. “Hm, I believe you,” she still finds the time to tease him.

John’s nose flares up in anger. “You were dead on a _slab_. It was definitely you,” He says, knowing that Sherlock was the one who identified her body and John had so much faith in him.

“DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep,” she says.

“And I bet you know the record-keeper,”

“I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear,” she smirks, crossing her arms.

John glares. “Then how come I can see you when I don’t even want to?”

She only smiles, scoffing and ignoring his question. “Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back so I need your help.” She easily says.

“No.”

Irene raised her perfect eyebrows. “It’s for his own safety.”

“So is this; tell him you’re alive.”

She pauses, not a slight change of emotion on her face. “I can’t.”

John had enough. “Fine. I’ll tell him and I still won’t help you.” He sends her another glare and turns around to walk off.

Irene momentarily panics, knowing that this is her last chance on retrieving her precious camera-phone from Sherlock. “What do I say?”

John snaps, turning around. “What do you normally say? You’ve texted him a lot!” He watches her take out her other phone with her gloved hands. He feels very angry because she faked her death and is unaware of how that affected Sherlock. John didn’t know that it wasn’t only because of Miss Adler that his sudden lack of interest about interaction was even more prominent during the past few days. A lot has been in Sherlock’s complex mind, and John is only seeing just a portion of it. If Sherlock is to know about John’s current situation, the detective would immediately think that John is angry all for the wrong reasons.

Irene is taken aback by his anger. “Just the usual stuff,”

“There is no usual is this case,” John regrettably says.

Irene smiles at him, looking back at her phone to read. “Good morning, I like your funny hat. I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner.” John looks at her with suspicion. “Hm, you look sexy on Crime Watch. Let’s have dinner.” She reads. “I’m not hungry; let’s have dinner.” Irene glances at John.

“You flirted with Sherlock?” John is surprised, he can never imagine Sherlock being that way. Flirting with women was never part of Sherlock’s personality, not unless it’s for a case he’s solving. In which case, John wouldn’t be surprised.

She raises her brows. “ _At_ him. He never replies.”

“No, Sherlock _always_ replies to anything. He’s Mr. Punchline. He’d outlive God trying to have the last word.” John interjects, not believing a word he’s hearing. Sherlock is never the affectionate type, but he’s never the quite type either if he’s being challenged to speak. Although, he does recall one instance where Sherlock visibly showed to John how he never replied to a text and it was from Jocelyn. Well, they _thought_ it was from her until it was confirmed that it was typed by another person during her kidnapping. John remembers how Sherlock chose not to reply. John never figured out why.

Irene processes his words, a faint smirk on her face. “Does that make me special?”

John doesn’t remember how he became so concerned over his best friend’s relationships. Maybe because it’s been so long since he knew him and he has never seen the detective even show an ounce of affection toward anyone. Jocelyn might be an exception. Dr. Watson believes that their encounter at the freezer only showed how much Sherlock cared, but it was so rare. That was an even that he knew would only happen once, since Sherlock makes it so clear how much he didn’t like being around Jocelyn. Everything felt confusing and all John wants is for his friend to be alright. “I don’t know, maybe.”

She looks back at her phone. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes is quite a man, Dr. Watson. It’s not every day you meet someone like him.” She softly says, scrolling through her phone as if she hasn’t just revealed herself to John Watson. “If I’m to understand what you’re implying, I’d say he’s taken an interest in me.” She smirks at her phone. “There. I’m not dead, let’s have dinner.”

Still, John glares at her. She’s taken this in the wrong way and he hates it. Sherlock is clearly not in the right state, and all she cares about is how the detective showed the least amount of care? Is Irene Adler this insensitive? He only scoffs at her, just before the familiar sound of an unusual text alert made him widen his eyes. John realizes how his friend is in the building and probably heard everything that had been said. He steps forward to run after him, but Irene holds up her hand to make him halt.

She cranes her neck towards him. “I don’t think so, do you?”

John has nothing else to say to her. His phone rings at the perfect time, saving him from another useless conversation with Miss Adler. He takes his phone into his hand and answers immediately. “Yeah?” John turns around and continues to walk away further from Irene, who watches him walk off.

“John, hey.” He hears the small voice that belonged to Jocelyn.

John pauses with walking, phone still held against his ear. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry, yes. I’m fine. Can I come over? I’m a bit in need of company.” She lets out a chuckle, but John somewhat knew it wasn’t a happy laugh.

He resumes walking. “All right. Just come to Baker Street, I’m on my way home.”

Back inside Jocelyn’s flat, she exhales the smoke. Today, she’s still alone inside her home, wanting to spend New Year’s Eve with her friends. Although, she hasn’t really made solid friends in the precinct, despite being friendly to everyone and everyone else doing the same to her. “You’re not in Baker Street?”

“Not really, met up with someone.” He sighs. “But anyway, just come over. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would be delighted.” He musters a smile, leaving the building and hailing a cab instead of getting inside the black car that Miss Adler probably arranged. When they both said goodbyes, John hangs up and makes his way back to Baker Street. This is going to be a long ride.

Half an hour later, Sherlock walks down the street upon coming back home, hands inside his pockets as he did. He thinks of how Irene Adler managed to outsmart him, frowning a bit. He knew that Irene is coming after her camera phone, there isn’t any doubt inside him that she will. Sherlock is about to grab the door handle of his home, but something caught his eye. The way the lock seems to have been broken, as if the door was kicked down open. Sherlock pushes the door open slowly, walking inside only to see the cleaning materials that clearly belongs to his landlady; the door that leads to her own flat is open. He glances to his left, inhaling and sensing a familiar fragrance. Chanel perfume, a quite specific one as well. Sherlock observes the wallpaper, seeing dark marks obviously from the soles of a shoe. Then, the small rip on the wallpaper indicating how a fingernail scratched it open.

Sherlock could not explain the sudden boiling rage he feels upon realizing that two women had been grabbed and possibly hurt inside his home. He slowly goes up the stairs and opens the door that leads to his flat. The person he immediately sees is Mrs. Hudson, sitting on a chair with the man from Irene Adler’s home pressing the barrel of the gun into her temple.  She seems to be so terrified. “Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock,” she whimpers, horrified of what is happening.

Sherlock looks around, but could not find the other woman that he imagined to also be inside the flat. It occurs to him that she might not have been inside the building when the men arrived. She most likely went outside to buy something. He almost sighs in relief, only because he only has to save one person now. It doesn’t mean that he’s relieved she wasn’t taken as hostage as well, no. Of course not.

“Don’t snivel, Mrs. Hudson.” He says, unaware of how his expression momentarily changed upon seeing his landlady look absolutely scared. “It’ll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet.” He glances at the man, eyes fiery. “What a tender world that would be.”

Mrs. Hudson keeps muttering apologies, shaking a bit. The man, probably not pleased to see Sherlock again, starts to speak. “I believe you have something we want, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” He mutters, walking closer towards Mrs. Hudson to examine her, wanting to see if she had been hurt.

“I’ve been asking this one, she doesn’t seem to know anything.” The man says, clearly giving a hit to Sherlock that they had never seen Jocelyn within the building, therefore, she’s safe. Sherlock glares at him, not even listening to a word he’s saying anymore as he observes Mrs. Hudson’s disheveled appearance. Then, he couldn’t help himself, he starts to read the man’s body, looking for targets where he can _hurt_ him for doing this to Mrs. Hudson. “You know what we’re asking for, Mr. Holmes.” His American accent is quite noticeable.

“I believe I do.” He mutters, standing up straight as he walks backwards, noticing how the gun that is pointed at his landlady is slowly shifting to aim at him. “First get rid of your boys.”

“Why?”

“I dislike being outnumbered, it makes for too much stupid in the room.” He points out.

The man tries to intimidate him with a look. He sighs. “You two, go to the car.”

“And get _in_ the car and drive away. Don’t try to trick me. You know who I am; it doesn’t work.” Sherlock says through gritted teeth, wanting this to be over with already. The other men quietly leave the room and do as instructed. “Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me.”

“So you can point a gun at me?”

“I’m unarmed.” He raises his arms, urging him to check just so he can knock him out.

“Mind if I check?” The man sarcastically asks.

“Oh, I insist.”

***

Jocelyn comes back to Baker Street with a paper bag full of groceries. She’s humming a soft tune as she knocks on the door, only for it to slide open from the impact of her fist. She furrows her brows and just walks inside, noticing how the lock is broken. “Mrs. Hudson?” She calls out, seeing the container of cleaning materials that the landlady was carrying just before Jocelyn left to buy groceries for the two men. Their refrigerator was empty and Mrs. Hudson was complaining so naturally, Jocelyn insisted.

Upon entering the building, something didn’t feel right. When she arrived, it was empty apart from Mrs. Hudson herself. The two men apparently went outside, but not with each other, as the landlady told her. Jocelyn hums in wonder, making her way upstairs. She pushes the door open, planning to just put the groceries away into their respective places until she sees a man strapped into a chair with duct tape covering his mouth. Jocelyn widens her eyes, seeing the blood on his forehead trickling down his face.

“Hello, Jocelyn.” She snaps her head to her left in surprise, seeing Sherlock calmly sitting down with his legs crossed and a gun aimed towards the mysterious man. He doesn’t even look towards her, just keeping his eyes on the man. “Sit down, have a cup of tea.”

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell is happening?” She carefully words, seeing how distressed Mrs. Hudson is. “Oh, my God. Are you okay, Mrs. Hudson?” She sets the paper bag down near the table and immediately goes to comfort her shaken figure. “What happened here?” She glances at the man before looking towards Sherlock who’s pushing himself onto his feet to hand her the gun. Jocelyn eyes him with shock. “What the hell, Sherlock. Are you being serious right now?”

“Of course. Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked and I will not deal with the attacker so lightly. I have to write a note on the door, excuse me.” Sherlock coolly tells her, waiting until she reaches for the gun and aims it toward the other man with a determined look on her face. She can feel Mrs. Hudson shaking and felt so awful for her. Naturally, Jocelyn trusts his judgment. She keeps one arm around Mrs. Hudson while the other held the heavy gun aiming towards the man.

Minutes later, John comes back, only to be greeted by the same scene Jocelyn witnessed. “What the hell is going on?” He breathily asks, glancing at Sherlock who now held the gun in one hand and a phone in the other, pressing it against his ear as if to call someone. He frowns, thinking of how Irene Adler is alive and now that Sherlock knows, he wonders how it affects him.

“Mrs. Hudson has been attacked by an American,” Sherlock keeps an icy look towards the attacker. “I’m restoring balance to the universe.”

John sees Jocelyn and Mrs. Hudson on the couch together, feeling much more worried about the two of them. “My God, are you two all right?” He sits next to the old woman, an arm wrapping around her. “Jesus, what have they done to you?”

Mrs. Hudson buries her face into her palms, clearly embarrassed of how she’s acting. “I’m just being so silly,” she whimpers and makes Jocelyn rub her back to comfort her.

Sherlock stands and keeps the phone pressed against his ear. He glances at John. “Downstairs. Take her downstairs and look after her.” He orders, and John immediately complies. Jocelyn pushes herself onto her own feet and escorted Mrs. Hudson on the way out of the room. John stops only for a second to speak to Sherlock, asking him if the detective is ever going to tell him what was going on. “I expect so, now go.” Sherlock simply says, listening to John’s fading footsteps. Lestrade finally answers the call. And Sherlock locks his gaze into the strapped man, eyes cold. “Lestrade, we’ve had a break in at Baker Street. Send your _least_ irritating officers and an ambulance.”

 _“What? What’s going on?”_ Sherlock can hear the sound of a chair scraping against the floor from it being pushed backward. _“Is anyone hurt?”_ Sherlock almost rolls his eyes at Lestrade’s words. Of course someone is hurt, why would Sherlock bother to ask for an ambulance?

“Oh, no, no, no, no, we’re fine. It’s the, uh, it’s the burglar. He’s gotten himself rather badly injured.” Sherlock puts the gun down onto the table.

_“Huh, well, what kind of injuries?”_

“Oh, a few broken ribs, a fractured skull. Suspected punctured lung,” His eyes pierces through him, almost threatening.

 _“What?”_ Lestrade exclaims. _“What the hell happened?”_

“He fell out of a window.” Sherlock calmly informs Lestrade, immediately hanging up and never taking his eyes off the man who laid a finger on Mrs. Hudson. _Oh, this will be fun._

Downstairs, Jocelyn is watching John treat the cut on Mrs. Hudson’s cheek. Her arms are crossed, a bit nervous about the whole ordeal. Jocelyn isn’t quite sure who those men were.

“Ooh, it stings.” The old woman winces just as John presses a damp tissue against her cheek, reassuring her.

Jocelyn bit her lip. “John, who were those guys?” She lowly asks.

He sighs, brows stretching upwards. “They were the ones who broke into Irene Adler’s home while we were in there. Good thing Irene was wearing Sherlock’s coat during the whole thing. Would have been uncomfortable.” He mutters the last part, still cleaning up the old woman’s wound.

Jocelyn furrows her brows. Irene Adler wore Sherlock’s coat? “Uncomfortable how?”

John realizes how he left out a very significant detail about their first meeting with Irene Adler. “Oh, uh, well. She kind of showed up without, err, her clothes? During the first time we met her. Bold move of hers, Sherlock had to offer his coat.” It feels awkward to say it out loud in front of the two women.

Mrs. Hudson gapes at him. “Naked? Why on Earth would she meet with Sherlock while being disrobed?” She asks the question that Jocelyn wanted to ask, but the young woman is still processing the words that left John’s mouth.

 _Dominatrix._ The only word Jocelyn can think of, repeating it over and over inside her head. Before she could say another word, a loud thud coming from outside of the building startles all three of them. They all look towards the window, and Mrs. Hudson, without missing a beat, complains about how the mysterious crash was just right by her garbage bins.

***

Jocelyn stands with Lestrade right outside of 221B, watching as the ambulance drives the so-called ‘burglar’ to the hospital. As Sherlock walks towards them, Lestrade gives him a disapproving look. “And exactly how many times _did_ he fall out of the window?”

Sherlock remains unfazed. “It’s been quite of a blur, Detective Inspector; I lost count.” He simply says, hands inside the front pockets of his coat. Greg only shakes his head at him, giving Jocelyn a look of acknowledgement and barely noticing the hint of amusement on the woman’s face as he walks away. Jocelyn knew that Sherlock is very defensive when it comes to those he cares about, and earlier events were proof of how that little characteristic never changed.

She clears her throat, the white puff of air leaving her warm body. Sherlock’s attention is caught, but he refuses to show it. “Nice of you to save Mrs. Hudson.”

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he turns to his left. “I didn’t save her. I’m the one who got her into this mess.” Sherlock mutters before making his way towards the door that leads to Mrs. Hudson.

Jocelyn’s smile slowly fades away, a bit bothered by how Sherlock believes he’s always the burden within a group of people. Before she could even say anything, he goes back into Mrs. Hudson’s house. Although, he lets Jocelyn slip past him first before he closes the door and begins to wipe the soles of his shoes onto the mat.

John glances up at his flatmate. “She’ll have to sleep upstairs in ours tonight. We need to look after her.” He says just as Mrs. Hudson protests.

“She’s fine.”

“No, she’s not. Look at her?” John scoffs at Sherlock. “She’s going to take some time away from Baker Street and stay with her sister. Doctor’s orders.” He watches Sherlock open the refrigerator and reach inside for something that may be from Speedy’s. The young woman is watching him with fond eyes.

Jocelyn gives Mrs. Hudson a knowing smile, nodding at her. Sherlock notices this, but pays it no mind. “Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock bites into the baked goods that Mrs. Hudson had inside her fridge.

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone. Where is it anyway?” John asks.

Sherlock lets out a breath through his nose, wiping the corner of his mouth with his fingers. “Safest place I know.” He glances at Mrs. Hudson just as Jocelyn’s smile widens.

The old woman looks up at the detective and slowly reaches into her brassiere, taking out the camera phone from the inside of her blouse. “He left it in the pocket of his second best dressing gown, you clot.” She huffs but smiles, covering her face in amusement after she gives the phone back to the detective. “Jocelyn managed to sneak it out while they thought I was having a cry.”

Sherlock raises his brows, looking towards the young woman who mockingly gives him a bow. “You’re very welcome.” She teases. While Mrs. Hudson is having a cry, she managed to explain to Jocelyn what has been going on, especially the importance of the camera phone. It apparently belonged to Miss Irene Adler. Jocelyn did not know why she could be… _jealous_ of a dead woman, but what can Jocelyn do about it?

Sherlock tears his gaze towards the woman and looks towards John. “Shame on you, John Watson.”

John has a questioning look on his face. “Shame on _me?”_

Sherlock begins walking toward the old woman. “Mrs. Hudson, leave Baker Street?” He wraps an arm around Mrs. Hudson and pulls her close. “England would _fall._ ” He tells him, making both women grin. Jocelyn could feel her heart pounding from the sight of Sherlock making Mrs. Hudson pleased. She suppressed it, this cannot happen again.

An hour later, John is inside the kitchen of their flat, pouring himself a glass of wine. Jocelyn sits on the counter, a bit worried over Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is now asleep inside her own flat, Jocelyn made sure she was feeling alright before she went back to the flat upstairs. The detective left an hour ago, probably to hide the camera phone somewhere and just came back. Currently, he’s in the living room with the violin in his hands. John offers her a drink and she thanks him quietly for it. Jocelyn sighs. “So, I still can’t figure out what’s _really_ going on.” She whispers to him.

John lets out a breath through his nose. “Irene Adler is alive.”

Her eyes widen, hand gripping the edge of the counter to keep herself upright. “Alive? But… her body was—”

“Yeah,” John glances at the doorway that led to the living room. “Doppelganger, my guess. I met up with her earlier, just before you called. She showed herself to me, and reveled to Sherlock through text that she’s alive.” He explains, seeing the mixture of expressions flashing on her face. “I would really love some help right now, to watch over Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is starting to worry,” he shakes his head, obviously worried as well.

Jocelyn frowns. “Oh. So, will that make things better?” She asks, clearly unsure of why her stomach is twisting. She should be glad that a human being is alive, although, not for the doppelganger’s case.

“I don’t know. Let’s find out.” He raises her brows at her, offering her a tight smile as he guides both of them to the living room with drinks in their hands. John watches Sherlock clean his violin and clears his throat, but the detective doesn’t look up. Jocelyn stays by the kitchen doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame and watches them. “Where’s the phone now?” John asks his friend.

“Where no one will look.” Sherlock simply answers.

Dr. Watson glances over his shoulder to give her a look, but Jocelyn only nods at him in assurance, urging him to keep talking to Sherlock. “Whatever’s in that phone it’s more than just pictures.”

“Yes, it is.” He slowly walks over nearby the window.

John presses his lips together in uncertainty. “So, she’s alive, then.” He looks down to his shoes for a moment. “How are we feeling about that?”

There is a pause, and Sherlock doesn’t want to answer his question. The Big Ben suddenly tolls its bell, making all three of them look in its direction. Jocelyn twists the wine glass between her fingers and bit her lip. The consulting detective looks away from the direction of Big Ben. “Happy New Year, to both of you.”

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?” John ignores his greeting.

Sherlock ignores him as well, taking his bow and resting the violin on his collarbone to play the familiar tune of _Auld Lang Syne._ John feels himself waver, but he decides not to push his flatmate into talking to him, recalling what Jocelyn advised him not to do.

All three of them are situated near the fireplace, warming themselves from the cold weather. Only two of them were actually in reality, worried over the health of one detective playing his violin as if it would solve every problem.

Jocelyn stands in the kitchen, wiping the wine glasses that were used earlier after she washed them all. She frowns, feeling her own hands shake from how cold it is inside the flat. Since her hands are wet as well, it made things a lot colder. She lets out a sigh, putting away the glasses and just thinks to herself for a second. John is at Mrs. Hudson’s flat because she asked him for help with her furniture and Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Probably in the main room, just drinking the whiskey that John brought. This flat has felt like a second home to her, which is probably why she insisted with staying for a bit during New Year’s Eve. Jocelyn doesn’t exactly want to be alone during this time of the year. She turns around and slightly jumps upon seeing Sherlock standing near the counter at the opposite side of the table.

“Christ,” She presses a palm against her chest in surprise.

“Why are you still here?” He squints his eyes at her in suspicion.

She sighs and walks towards him, bypassing the man to reach up to the shelves and retrieve a cloth to dry her hands with. Sherlock watches her every move. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.” She mumbles. “I’ll see myself out in a few minutes, I just need to clean all this mess up.” She gestures towards the table containing various types of laboratory equipment with different test tubes having substances that Jocelyn would rather not know.

“You don’t live here anymore,” he ignores everything she said. “All the filth within 221B is none of your top priorities.” He furrows his brows at her.

Jocelyn presses her lips together. “Just… leave me be, Sherlock. I’m sure you’ll find a case to busy yourself with right now.” She mumbles.

“You’re here because John asked you to be.” Sherlock makes known, more likely deducing the whole situation already. “He asked you to monitor me, did he not?”

She runs her fingers through her hair, clearly in distress. “Yes, he did.”

Sherlock pauses, clearly stunned by how she answers directly, choosing not to cover the facts. His eyes dart to his left, before meeting with her green ones again. “I’m not a child.”

The young woman sighs. “I understand that, Sherlock. But the past few days haven’t been easy for you. Including John and Mrs. Hudson. They need help, just as you do.”

“Why would I need help?”

She isn’t sure how to answer that without offending him. But it’s Sherlock, he never gets offended easily. Not the Sherlock she knew during University, though. That Sherlock valued others opinions, until he learned that only a few people’s opinions actually mattered. The memory of that made her heart swell. “Ask John, I’m just here if you need me,” she offers him a shrug.

Sherlock tilts his head, not sure how to reply, but immediately says the first thing that comes to mind—“Why… would I need you?”

Jocelyn isn’t sure if he’s aware that he’s uttered those exact words to her already, way before she came to London. It makes her throat tighten. “I don’t know.” She truthfully answers, turning around to clean the laboratory apparatuses in the sink. Jocelyn doesn’t want to break down right in front of him, it would confirm many things that she’d rather have left unsaid.

When she assumed that he left already because of the silence, she breathes more freely. Jocelyn closes her eyes and reaches up to wipe her eyes, keeping herself awake. She finds herself stopping with cleaning the beaker, just keeping still in her position. Her body tenses upon feeling warmth behind her, her gaze goes downward, seeing her own feet within pumps and the familiar tips of formal black shoes touching the back of hers. Jocelyn feels a hot breath brushing against her neck, and there is a hint of scotch and whiskey that indicated his alcohol induced state. Jocelyn gasps as she feels Sherlock’s fingers on the skin of her arm, tracing upwards agonizingly slow. “Sherlock, what… what are you doing?” He doesn’t answer, but his movements are quite enough as answers. Jocelyn should stop this, he’s clearly pissed. “Hey, hey,” she softly mutters, turning around to face the man and sees his confused expression. Their bodies are almost pressed against each other, and if anyone is to walk in, it would clearly appear as though they’re lovers. She looks down and sees how his hand is still curled around her wrist in a gentle manner. “Sherlock, no, what are you—”

He opens his mouth, but immediately presses them shut. He tries again after ten seconds of just observing the conflicting emotions in the young woman’s eyes. “I… _loathe_ you,” he narrows his eyes and his voice is hushed. His words makes her stomach twist in pain, and it takes all of her willpower to keep her eyes dry for the night. She swallows and looks away from his eyes. Sherlock probably doesn’t realize how much his words affects her, and so he continues. “Whenever you are inside my home, I feel as though you are always intruding my life. I normally do not feel that way towards any other, but you… you always, _always,_ manage to alienate yourself around me.” His deep voice had a certain timbre to it and it sends shivers down her spine, albeit the words he just uttered.

The more she analyzes his words, the more difficult it is to suppress her tears. “You continue to burden me with your existence and antics around me, disturbing me from my work, disrupting the natural process of my thoughts and most importantly,” he breathes, able to keep track of his word usage despite having too much alcohol in his system. Jocelyn prepares herself for the worst, just looking down at the ground and feeling downright miserable from the way he talked her down. Sherlock parts his lips, just observing her. “Most importantly, none of which I have mentioned is bothering me. Not anymore. Your presence has become… _crucial_ to my everyday work, and I… I dislike it.” Sherlock clears his throat, voice quieting down at the end.

Jocelyn looks up at him, unsure if what he just said is a positive or negative thing. Nevertheless, a tear still managed to escape her eye. “Sherlock—” Her voice breaks, but gets cut off by Sherlock leaning down onto her to press his forehead against hers. She isn’t sure how to react, this isn’t normal. This isn’t the cold Sherlock that she always receives every time she meets with him. “Jocelyn,” He mumbles under his breath. His large hand still curls itself around her wrist in such a soft manner. She finds herself comparing this to the version of him eight years ago, it feels so similar, so familiar. Despite how much she wants to remain in that position, she knew that the sober version of Sherlock can never bring himself to do this, much less be this close to her. So, she sighs and reaches up to push Sherlock by the chest. Sherlock’s face fills with confusion just around the same time the door swings open to reveal John with a grin on his face.

Upon seeing the _very_ odd sight in front of him, John’s grin slowly fades and turns into a face of surprise. He just saw the two people whom avoided any physical contact for so many months, just be less than an arm’s reach. And it even appears as if Sherlock initiated it. Sherlock doesn’t even care that John is there, his eyes only settles on Jocelyn. On the other hand, the young woman clears her throat and feels her face heat up, realizing that Sherlock is very close to her, to the point where the look on John’s face is justifiable. “Er, sorry for the mess. I think Sherlock can, uh, clean this up.” Her voice is slightly shaking, walking past the two men and going to the living room to gather her bag and scarf.

John gives Sherlock a look, seeing the way the detective’s gaze follows the young lady. It takes a few moments until Sherlock meets gaze with Dr. Watson, who shakes his head in confusion as if to ask him what happened. Sherlock doesn’t answer, turning on his heels before walking straight to his room without another word. John sighs to himself, walking to the living room and sees Jocelyn wrapping the scarf around her neck to prepare herself on leaving. “What happened back there?” He confusedly ask.

Jocelyn gives off a nervous laugh. “ _Oh_ , John, I don’t know and I really don’t want to know. Maybe just follow my footsteps.” She says, slightly angry and also slightly puzzled. _What in the living fuck just happened?_

John looks around the living room while Jocelyn slips on her gloves. “Hey, come on, it’s two in the morning. You should at least stay the night.”

The thought of staying the night and seeing Sherlock the next morning makes her stomach churn. “No, I can’t. I really can’t.” She hurriedly says.

He sighs again. “Jocelyn,” John trails off, watching as she walks through the door.

She stops herself and turns around, smiling bitterly. “ _Fuck_ , John, I am so _bloody_ confused right now,” she humorlessly laughs again, pressing her palm against her forehead. “What does he want from me? What made him _think_ that was an okay thing to do? What was going through his mind? Did he even _think_ about what would have happened?” She is speaking too fast and it makes John frown, pitying her. He couldn’t help it. The way tears are currently filling her eyes and she immediately wipes away anything that escapes, it could only confirm that she cares about Sherlock more than she lets on. Mycroft saw through her façade, and now, John is only realizing it. “I just can _never_ win with him. I don’t understand him, I just—” Jocelyn pauses. “I just want to know what he wants from me, I’m so tired of guessing.” She exhales, blinking fast. “I know that he hates me for what I did, and all I want is to explain it to him so he’d understand why I had to do it,” her voice wavers, the emotions are becoming too much for her fragile body, John is only an audience to her breakdown.

“Jocelyn, I am so sorry,” he tells her, stepping forward but stopping himself from getting any closer when Jocelyn steps back and says no while shaking her head. She just turns around and leaves the building to go home. John didn’t come after her, knowing that she would need to be alone for a bit. Whatever Sherlock did, sober or not, it was wrong. Maybe that is just John’s opinion, but he doesn’t know whatever it is that goes on inside of Sherlock’s mind. So, he closes the door and exhales, clearly stressed over the whole situation. He goes upstairs to his room and lies down to sleep. Baker Street sleeps soundly, except for one disturbed detective.

Sherlock remains inside his room, standing nearby his mattress. He reaches into his pocket and takes out the camera phone that The Woman left to him, anticipating her appearance very soon. Meanwhile, Jocelyn settles inside her apartment, already deeming this to be the worst way to start the New Year.


	13. The Lock

The next day, Sherlock wakes up with a slight thrumming in his head. He realizes how it’s nine in the morning, given the immediate scent he picked up from the kitchen the minute he opened his eyes; the smell of burning coffee. He pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, finding the camera phone on the nightstand. He frowns and gets up on his bare feet, retrieving the phone from the nightstand and slipping it into the pocket of his trousers. Sherlock slowly leaves his room, spotting John in the main area, reading today’s newspaper with the radio on. He glances at the kitchen counter and sees an Aspirin pill, a mug of coffee and a cup of tea. The consulting detective takes the pill, the cup of tea in between his hands and took a sip, trying his best to remove the awful feeling inside his head.

John looks to his right upon hearing the door closing, raising his brows at Sherlock’s morning state, noticing how he slept in his clothes from last night. He cringes at the thought of sleeping in uncomfortable trousers like Sherlock did. “Hey,” Watson calls out.

Sherlock’s head snaps towards him, rubbing the side of his face with his palm and feeling the heat passed onto his skin from the cup of tea. “Good morning.” He nonchalantly says, proceeding to his own chair with a sigh the moment he sits down.

John watches his for a second, looking down at the detective’s hands. They were shaking while he grips the cup of tea. This makes the doctor purse his lips. “I think you had too much to drink last night.” He nods towards the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the table.

That makes Sherlock scoff. “Don’t be absurd. You and I both know that I can never be too intoxicated.”

John’s eye almost twitches, remembering the distraught expression on Jocelyn’s face last night. The anxious breaths, the shaking fingers, and the small flinch she does when John tries to comfort her. “Does Jocelyn know that?” He closes his newspaper, folds it in half and sets it on his lap.

The consulting detective frowns and knots his eyebrows at him. “Do make sense, John. I cannot see how and why Jocelyn fits into the narrative of me handling my liquor.”

John isn’t sure which head he wants to slam onto the wall more; his or Sherlock’s. “You suppressed your urge to relapse by drinking an immense amount of alcohol last night. Why the bloody hell would you do that?” He goes straight to the point. Sherlock, for s split second, is taken aback by his sudden question. “Yes, Sherlock, I  _did_  notice. I’m not an idiot, I told you that. I know that you’ve been itching for a fix lately, and I just want to know why.” He says. “Is it because of The Woman? The case? The camera phone?” He pauses, seeing the conflict inside his flatmate’s eyes. John hesitates. “Is it because of Jocelyn?”

“No.” Sherlock immediately answers.  _Too_  immediate. He blinks a few times, looking away from John. “No. I am fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.” He claims, although, it seems as though now that Dr. Watson pointed out these things to him, Sherlock is beginning to question that as well. He does his best to breathe normally. “If there is, it’s normal.”

“Sherlock, there’s nothing normal here,” he points between them as if to gesture at everything that has been happening lately. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing is going on.” The detective answers, fingers paling while gripping his fine china cup of tea in his hands.

John wants to give up, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to. This is his best friend, and he may not have admitted that to him, but in his eyes, Sherlock is his best friend. Seeing him this way, it did not feel right. “Then would you explain to me what happened last night?”

His question brought him much confusion. “Last night?”

“Yes,  _last night_ , in the kitchen.” John nods before giving it a short moment. He sighs, closing his eyes. “Do you even remember?”

“Of course, I remember.” Sherlock tells him, as if he is offended by John’s doubt with his memory. He believes that even alcohol cannot disrupt with his memory, when clearly, it can. Sherlock may be a brilliant man with a fascinating working mind, but alcohol is alcohol. “I hid the phone where no one can find it, came back here and… went to sleep,” He slows down with speaking by the end of his sentence, even questioning himself if that’s really all he did. He wouldn’t go to bed willingly when he’s tired. Usually, he goes to bed when he needs to be alone.

Watson clicks his tongue, shifting in his chair to brace himself. “You and I remember last night  _very_ differently.” John mumbles to himself, but Sherlock manages to hear, making him look down at his lap.  _No, this cannot happen; my mind is working perfectly fine._  He thinks to himself, not wanting to believe that he did drink too much last night and it somehow led to him forgetting most details from the night before.

Sherlock doesn’t want to ask, but when John looks at him, the doctor immediately knows what he is asking for. “Jocelyn was here last night, she was in the kitchen washing the plates or something, I don’t know. She always cleans up after you, you know. All the mess you make in the kitchen, she’s always the one who cleans them up. If you even notice that.”  _Yes, John, of course I notice that._ “I don’t know what exactly happened but I walked in and you were, well,” he clears his throat, only for Sherlock to narrow his eyes at him. “I don’t know what you were doing. You two were standing very close to one another.” If John did not have any knowledge about how much it upset Jocelyn, he would have been amused right now.

The detective freezes. John would never lie to him, as far as he’s concerned. His words replay themselves repeatedly inside his head. Somehow, his memory is slowly coming back to him.  _“Your presence has become… crucial to my everyday work, and I dislike it,”_ his own words echo in his ears like a curse. Sherlock doesn’t remember everything, but the instinct of touching his own fingertips from the memory of them being against her warm skin; it was all he needed to know. He clenches his jaw, puts down his cup of tea on the small table next to him, presses his palms together and sits in his thinking stance. Sherlock sits in silence for a second, while John tilts his head at him. When the doctor realizes that Sherlock doesn’t want to talk anymore, he scoffs silently and goes to the kitchen to wash his own cup.

Next thing Sherlock knew, he’s in St. Barts, x-raying the camera phone to see what he finds. He’s trying to get many things off his mind and it’s a surprise that none of his consciousness has shown up. Molly stands next to him whilst he’s doing his work. Sherlock picks up some explosives while x-raying the phone, not sure if he should feel frustrated or impressed by the works of Irene Adler. Clearly both.

Molly looks over to view what he’s doing. “Is that a phone?”

“It’s a camera phone.” He answers, glancing at the door. He knew that in any minute, Jocelyn might walk in to consult Dr. Hooper regarding a body to be taken in the morgue. He knew that he knew how Jocelyn does this quite often, he was so aware of it that he takes precaution of glancing at the door from time to time. He doesn’t know why he keeps doing so, but it annoys him. Sherlock annoys himself too many times.

“And… you’re x-raying it?” Sherlock is immediately reminded that Molly is still there.

“Yes, I am.”

Molly smiles. “Whose phone is it?”

“A woman’s.” He answers briefly, not wanting to keep a conversation while he’s working.

Molly’s smile slowly fades. “Your girlfriend?”

Sherlock pauses for a moment. “You think she’s my girlfriend because I’m x-raying her possessions?” He seems bewildered, but it only proves to Molly how Sherlock is aware of what’s toxic or not in a relationship, and so she smiles.

“Well,” she lets out a nervous laugh. “We all do silly things,”

“Yes.” He agrees and immediately has an idea popping inside his head. “They  _do,_ don’t they?” Sherlock turns his head to Molly, who doesn’t understand what he’s saying.  _They do, don’t they? The ordinary people, they love to be silly._ He stands and goes immediately to the x-ray machine where he kept the phone inside, opening the door to take it into his hand. “She sent this to my address, and she  _loves_  to play games.” He smirks, feeling confident that he finally solved this one, typing in the three digits and single letter of his address. He doesn’t even hear Molly’s question when the phone rejects his passcode and tells him he was wrong. His nose almost flares up in disappointment as he turns the phone off and puts the phone on the table in a slightly aggressive manner.  _Time for another plan._

Jocelyn is in her lab at Scotland Yard, wearing gloves and laboratory glasses as she mindlessly bobs her head to the beat of the song playing from her headset. She’s minding her own business with the mixtures she’s working on when suddenly, one of her earphones are pulled out and startles her. She looks to her right and see Greg crossing his arms with his eyebrows raised. “Glad to see you hard at work.” He sarcastically comments.

She tries not to grin, but fails only a little bit. “You know, studies show that the brain does a lot of work when it’s not trying. This is why most good ideas happen in the shower.” She points out, making Greg scoff with amusement. Useless information, but she always keeps those in mind.

“Wow,” he nods. “Any progress so far?” He nods at the experiment she’d doing.

“Yes, of course,” she turns and grabs a glass frame with the torn pieces of cloth pinned inside. “I rehydrated the torn clothes using polyvinyl acetate.” She hands him the frame, and he only glances at it with an impressed expression. “And I ran the pieces through a pattern recognition program and I found one thing.” She informs him, taking her clipboard and scans it to find her analysis. “Oh, here. A guard’s badge for a local art museum. Looks like the victim works there and got his badge torn off.” She explains.

Greg nods once again, looking over her analysis and scratches his head. “Alright, good work. Has the body been taken to the morgue yet for a post-mortem?”

“Yes, of course. Took it this morning, I’m still waiting on Dr. Hooper’s autopsy report.”

D.I. Lestrade nods and leaves her alone to do her work, taking a copy of her analysis with him to go find the art museum. As soon as the door closes, her smile drops and she lets out a breath and plugs back in her earphone to listen to the song playing. Jocelyn goes back to work, not wanting to think of anything else other than  _work_.

\--

“Come on, Sherlock!” Jocelyn yelled, feeling the cold of the winter wrapping around her body, albeit the layers of clothes and the hat. The snow settled on her head as she runs across the garden. It was crazy; just a few days ago, snow barely covered the ground and now, the backyard was filled with piles of snow. During the anniversary, the outside of the venue was still usable for the celebration, but now there is snow everywhere one would look. “You  _work_  all the time, you’re missing out on a lot!”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, wrapping the coat around himself with his gloved hands. His ears were being warmed by his hat as he stood on the porch of his home while watching Jocelyn run around at nine in the morning, snow being scattered behind her shoe every time she took a step. “It’s too cold out, Jocelyn.” He called out, a puff of white fog leaving his mouth.

“Which is why you’re missing out!” She laughed, gathering snow in her gloves and sighs with a huge grin on her face. Her blue hair peeked out of her hat and framed her flushed face.

“Winter comes once a year, Jocelyn. I fail to see the point of leaving the house to hold a ball of snow to carelessly thro—” He was cut off by a snowball hitting his face and the loud laugh leaving the young girl’s mouth. He also hears a snort to his left, making him tilt his head and see his brother covering his mouth with his gloved hand. He glared at his brother, but felt his own mouth curling up into a smile by the sound of Jocelyn’s laugh from the distance. Mycroft was seated on the porch sitting area, a mug of cocoa in his hand as he watched the shenanigans happening in the backyard; mostly being Jocelyn.

“Sherl, stop being so pristine, gosh,” Jocelyn got on her knees and lies down on the snow, doing some kind of kinetic movement with her arms and legs, as Sherlock analyzed her.

“Yes,  _Sherl,_  do stop being pristine.” Mycroft emphasized on the silly nickname that Jocelyn gave him, chuckling a bit.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if his face heated up because of the cold or the comment that his brother made. Clearly, he has deduced everything that happened days ago, just from his movements and how Jocelyn was acting. The thought of it felt ridiculous but oddly triumphant, knowing that Mycroft is aware of the very strange commotion happening between him and Jocelyn. Sherlock gave up and stepped into the snow, feeling himself physically repulsed as his boot sank into the pile. His teeth almost chattered from the cold, but when he saw the genuine look of happiness in her face— _which by the way, Sherlock is slowly recognizing_ —it was worth it.

Soon, it took a long conversation with Mrs. Holmes to get Sherlock off the pile of snow, since he was quite enjoying making snow angels as Jocelyn showed him. Mycroft and Jocelyn just kept laughing as Sherlock struggled to keep his snowman standing. Sherlock remembered making them when he was very young, with Mycroft of course. He did not have many friends when he was a child, and it was one of the reasons why he’s so much attached to his older brother. All three of them came back to the house and shed their winter clothes.

Jocelyn now wore a sweater and comfortable pants after being outside for almost three hours. Mrs. Holmes bringing them more homemade cupcakes and hot cocoa. While settling on the couch, Jocelyn folded her legs underneath herself and had a blanket cover her legs. Sherlock sits next to her, also wearing a sweater. This week has been the time Jocelyn saw Sherlock wearing something else other than his fancy looking suits and shiny black shoes. While holding her hot cocoa mug, she leans her shoulder on Sherlock’s shoulder and becomes more comfortable that way. A few steps behind the sofa they settled on, Mycroft silently smiles at them as he passed the living room.

She did the same thing at the end of the year. New Year ’s Eve came by quite quickly and Sherlock watched his parents share a sweet midnight kiss. He saw no point in how special New Year’s Eve kiss is when a person can engage in such activity with their significant other in all occasions. He felt a soft nest of hair tickle the skin of his neck, looking down and recognizing the bright blue hair. Jocelyn leaned her head on his shoulder, an arm wrapped around his arm as she sipped her wine and watched the fireworks on the television. Sherlock felt so comfortable, he was slowly getting used to this. This, being Jocelyn close to him. Physically and, well, maybe emotionally as well. In all aspects, he is close to her. Nothing else happened that was remotely close to their kiss weeks ago. Just them acting like nothing happened, but at the same time,  _like everything changed_.

“Happy New Year, Jocelyn.” He told her.

She said nothing, but he knew that she was smiling.

When it was time to go back to campus, Jocelyn found herself embracing each family member too long and too tightly. They have become her second family in the course of three weeks. Mrs. Holmes told her to be good, and it made her giggle. Mr. Holmes gave her a book to read, and she treasured it with everything she had. Mycroft held her tight when she went in for a hug, arms around his neck. He whispered to her, “You put value in Sherlock. Therefore, you are very much valuable to me as well.”

Those words meant the world to Jocelyn.

She got into the car with Sherlock, waiting for him to sit in the driver’s seat and shut the car door before putting his seatbelt on. The ride back to campus was surprisingly silent, but comfortable. He enjoyed the silence with only Debussy playing in the background of it all. Still, he glanced at her from time to time even after knowing that she’s just looking outside the window and enjoying the scenery of empty grasslands until the scene outside the window turned into tall buildings and coffee shops they’ve visited once or twice.

He pulled over in front of her apartment building with eyes her on for a brief moment, affection in them. When she began smiling, it was contagious and made him do so as well. He looked down at his lap and hesitated. “I, um, have something for you.” He said, reaching behind to the backseat and takes a wooden box with a hinge that could let the lid be opened and closed.

“Oh?” Jocelyn lets out a hum, looking at the box. “What is it?”

Sherlock opens the box and reveals a steel pen, smooth and working. “A fountain pen.”

“You got me a pen?” She smiled in a confused manner, taking the thin pen out of the box. She narrowed her eyes at him with suspicion. “This isn’t a normal pen, isn’t it?”

Sherlock wasn’t that surprise with her immediate guess, knowing that she was quite aware of how odd he can be. Of course, the pen had to be a trick. So, he let out a chuckle. “You know me so well.” He said. “It can emit a signal that can disrupt the chemicals of the brain, making the person react by being paralyzed momentarily.” He explained, making Jocelyn rethink her move with letting it loose from the box.

“Really, Sherlock?” She asked in a much more sarcastic tone.

“I made it in High School.”

“Of course, you did,” she smiled and put the pen back into the box carefully. “Not sure why you’re giving me this.” She nodded, feeling her stomach flutter.

Sherlock nodded, helping her with her luggage and now stood in front of her door. Jocelyn was right in front of him, just looking up and waiting for him to do anything he might feel like doing. He was clueless, of course, and does nothing. Just smiling at her once and speaking. “Thank you for staying with us for three weeks, I highly appreciate it.”

“You sound like a hotel manager,” she teased and pulled a small laugh from him. “No, Sherlock, I’m the one who has to thank you, okay? I have never celebrated Christmas that way. Never in my whole life did I have a complete family, I was always juggled around by my parents and everything,” she sighed, remembering how awful an occasion used to be during her childhood. “So, thank you for inviting me.” Her voice is much quieter now.

“What was that?” He asked, pretending as if he didn’t hear her just to step closer.

Jocelyn caught up to what he was doing. “I said, thank you,” she said even quieter, playing along.

Sherlock had half a smile on his face. He had never felt happier than he did the last few months. He pressed his forehead against hers and reached down to grab her hand. He’s never done this with anyone, never been this close to anyone at all, in all aspects. Never has he ever felt as though only one person mattered to him at one moment. She leaned in and pressed their lips together, eyes closing immediately as her hand reached up to cup his cheek. It was just a peck, but it was enough to send him in frenzy.

His intelligent mind recorded every single millisecond of that physical contact with her, everything he felt was in record, and put into a single place inside his head; everything about Jocelyn. It was just space, no specific place— _not yet, at least._  When they both pulled away, Jocelyn has a flushed look on her face as she said goodbye to him. Her pupils were dilated and from how Sherlock is holding her hand, he could feel her heartbeat racing. They part ways and he left when she closed the door behind herself. Sherlock left the building and sat in his car with an idiotic grin on his face, driving off to his own flat to start unpacking.

\--

“I don’t think I want to talk about it with him.” Jocelyn whispers into her phone. It is currently her break, and she’s right behind the building with a cigarette between her fingers.

“No, of course not. But I still think you two should talk about it.” John suggests.

She takes a drag and puffs it out. “And if he doesn’t want to?”

“Then I might lock the two of you inside one room.” John teases, it only makes her lightly chuckle, dreading the thought of it already. “Why not just try it, yeah? Come to Baker Street tonight, it might be good for both of you to just settle things. Those eight years of no news from one another, just let them all out. Who knows, maybe Sherlock isn’t aware that that’s what he wants as well.” John points out.

She sighs, smoke following suit. “He said he hated me.”

“Then ask him why.”

“I  _know_  why, I just,” she clicks her tongue in frustration. “Listen, I’ll think about it, okay? Need to go back.” She says. John tells her goodbye and hangs up, leaving her to smoke by herself.

Sherlock steps into the landing area of his apartment building. As soon as he feels as though something is wrong, he takes a whiff of the air surrounding him. There is a certain perfume lingering in the air. He just got back from a quite frustrating session of grocery shopping with John Watson; Sherlock just stood there watching his flatmate decide with carton of milk he should buy. It was apparently a struggle to pick between two cartons of milk, as John clearly demonstrated.

He walks into the kitchen and notices how the window is now open, along with the blinds. He hears John’s footsteps from the staircase while the detective walks through the hallway leading to his bedroom. He walks inside his bedroom with a clearly puzzled look, only for him to relax but maintain a blank expression. John settles the plastic bags of grocery on the kitchen table, carelessly throwing the keys onto it as well. “Hey, Sherlock,” John walks towards him as if to ask a question.

Sherlock calmly aims his gaze at his friend. “We have a client.” He informs.

“What, in your bedroom?” He walks into the room with a bottle of wine in his hand. He sees the woman—or rather,  _The_  Woman—in a very casual attire as she sleeps on Sherlock’s mattress. “Oh,” he makes a sound, almost amused.

***

 “What do you keep on here? In general, I mean.” He looks up at her while twisting the camera phone in his hand, watching the way she crosses her arms.

“Pictures, information, anything I might find useful.”

John interrupts. “For blackmail?”

“For protection,” she corrects, giving him a sly glance before shifting her gaze back on the detective. “I make my way in the world. I misbehave.” She looks him up and down and of course, Sherlock doesn’t miss it. He knows that look, he could recognize it anywhere. He makes note of it in the back of his mind. “I like to know that people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”

“And how do you acquire this information?”

“I told you; I misbehave.” Irene emphasizes, and this interests Sherlock.

“But you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?”

“Yes,” she hesitates, crossing her arms. “But I don’t understand it.”

 _Expected._ “I assumed. Show me.”

Irene then makes a move into stretching her hand with her palm open, as if to beckon Sherlock to place the phone into her possession. Sherlock grits his teeth, leaning back. “The passcode.” He calmly demands. Irene Adler only stares at him with this intense gaze, lifting her chin as if to show him who really is in charge of the room.  _Play her game, Sherl. That’s what I’d do._ Sherlock almost winces at the voice in his head.  _Can’t wait to see her face, can you?_

He makes himself appear defeated before placing the phone on her palm. Irene glances at him, before keying in her passcode. The phone buzzes. “It’s not working.”

Sherlock feels triumphant as he retrieves back the phone. “No, because it’s a duplicate that I had made into which you’ve just entered the code one, zero, five, eight.” He reaches into the chair that Irene was sitting on, taking the real camera phone. John snickers in the background, but catches a glimpse of Irene’s expression. Something isn’t right. “I assumed you have chosen something more specific than that, but thanks anyway.” Sherlock begins to type in the passcode, only for it to be rejected by the phone. Only one attempt remaining.

Irene blinks, pursing her lips. “I told you that camera phone is my life; I know when it’s in my hand.”

Sherlock is impressed, he was outwitted by this person. Interesting. “Oh, you’re rather good.”

“You’re not so bad.” Irene smirks at him. He knows that look, he’s been familiar with it for quite some time now. Sherlock isn’t sure how to respond, he only narrows his eyes at her.

John glances between the two of them and is suddenly reminded of the night before. He thought it best to interrupt. “Hamish,” he announces and makes everyone look at him. “John Hamish Watson, just if you were looking for baby names.” He dryly teases them, mostly Sherlock. He just played with Jocelyn last night, it is quite awful if he jumps to another woman. Although, John doesn’t see the whole picture of Sherlock’s platonic respect for Irene.

Irene shows him the photograph of an email on her camera phone, talking about an MOD official who was associated with her. The email apparently can save the world. He views the code on the screen, looking for any clues and barely noticing Irene Adler leaning closer to him than she should. “What can you do, Mr. Holmes? Go on,” she lowers her voice into a whisper, “Impress a girl.” She goes to kiss his cheek.

 _Yeah, Sherlock, impress a girl._  Sherlock can almost hear Jocelyn’s contagious laughter in the back of his head. It’s quite unsettling. He can definitely see her laughing at Irene’s attempts into seducing him. He begins to explain the code, or seat allocations of a passenger jet, speaking in a rapid speed. John looks at Irene for a moment, seeing the way she looks at Sherlock. He is in shock as well, Sherlock has barely sat down to actually scan the code, but he managed to figure it out in less than five seconds. “Please don’t feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing.”

Irene’s gaze is intense, Sherlock can see how other men can get weak in the knees when they lock eyes with her. Fortunately, Sherlock is never one of those men. What she says next is quite unexpected though, especially right in front of John. “I would have you right here, on the desk, until you begged for mercy twice.”

The room goes silent.

Sherlock just stares back at her, trying to see what she’s playing at. He can already hear Jocelyn’s snorts, because she may be the only person who’d know that the Art of Seduction by Irene Adler would never work on him. “John, please can you check those flight schedules, see if I’m right?” He tells John, still staring at Irene as if looking away from her might mean losing the game.

“Uh, yeah, I’m on it,” John clears his throat and ducks down to type into his computer.

 Sherlock barely blinks. “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”

“Twice.”

Sherlock isn’t sure what she means by that, before John speaks and confirms his deductions. He begins to recall the phone call that his brother had when he was inside their flat. Bond Air is go. Flight Double O Seven.  _Coventry lot._

“Sherlock, you know what this means, right?” he hears a voice behind him and makes him turn around, seeing Jocelyn wearing a formal yellow dress that reminds him of a specific Anniversary party all those years ago.

“Coventry.” Sherlock plucks at the violin strings as he tells her.

What surprises him is that the image of Jocelyn is never there, it is only Irene, still sitting on John’s chair while wearing his blue dressing gown. She has been watching him, even made a fire for them to stay warm. She noticed Sherlock being frozen for a couple of hours, just thinking to himself while plucking the strings of his violin. “I’ve never been. Is it nice?”

Sherlock’s lips part in surprise, unsure why he should be. After all, it’s his hideous mind, always playing tricks on him. “Where’s… John?”

She raises her brows, leaning back. “He went out a couple of hours ago.”

“I was just talking to him.” He lies.

“He said you do that.” She smiles in a much more genuine way, glancing at him from head to toe. “What’s Coventry got to do with anything?” She asks him and he hesitates to speak, but it is best to just tell her about it. Therefore, he does, telling her the story of Coventry.

It startles him, though, her next question. “Have you ever had anyone?”

Sherlock pauses, letting those words repeat themselves in his head. “Sorry?”

She gives him a slight smirk. “And when I say ‘had’ I’m being indelicate.” Irene calmly informs him, only feeling amused by his confusion.

Sherlock hates the way he can feel the heat travel up his neck and onto his face, he is a grown human being, for God’s sake. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll be delicate, then,” she unfolds her legs and lets the material travel upwards before she kneels down onto the ground in front of him, face closer than he is comfortable with. She places the warmth of her hand on top of his. “Let’s have dinner.”

“Why?”

“You might be hungry.”

“I’m not.”

She smiles. “Good.”

He looks down at their hands, feeling how hers is much softer than the pair of hands he remembered holding. It did not feel right. He twists her hand slowly, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. “Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?” He asks, blue eyes locked with hers.

She seems to be struck by him. “Oh, Mr. Holmes.” She sighs, eyeing his lips. He notices the way her pupils have dilated. “If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night; would you have dinner with me?” She asks.

He narrows his eyes, hand still curled around her wrist. Sherlock is about to answer when they both hear footsteps up the staircase and land right outside the door. Sherlock looks from the corner of his eye and see the familiar brown curls belonging to Jocelyn. He freezes.

Jocelyn was smiling on the way up since Mrs. Hudson gave her a hug. John just called her, saying that they should talk and she should wait for him here. It isn’t until she feels her stomach twist at the sigh on front of her; a young woman kneeling right in front of Sherlock with their faces mere inches apart. “Oh,  _God_ , I’m  _so_  sorry,” she apologizes quickly, turning away almost immediately.

“Jocelyn,” Sherlock speaks up before he could stop himself, and it startles Irene, who just lets go of Sherlock’s hand and moving back to her previous seat.

Irene bites her lip, looking over her shoulder to see if the other woman might come back. And she does, a bit nervous now. Sherlock only watches her. “Sorry, John just told me to come up. He didn’t really mention any guests,”

Sherlock pushes himself off the chair and stands on his feet, putting down the violin on the chair. “Did you need something?”

“Uh,” she pauses, already mentally cursing herself for even trying to come up with an excuse. She knew that Sherlock would see right through her. She glances at the woman behind him, seeing the way she’s wearing the blue dressing gown that Sherlock loves wearing. “I was um… meaning to talk to you, but that can wait if you have a guest over.” She immediately adds.

His expression relaxes, assuming this was about the events of last night. He watches her for a moment before glancing at Irene Adler, who looks between the two of them. “Not a guest. Client.” He corrects her. “This is Miss Irene Adler. She’ll be staying here for a while, given her circumstances.” He introduces The Woman.

Irene smiles at her, although, there’s something suspicious behind her smile. “It’s nice to meet you.” Her low and sultry voice is the representation of velvet as sound.

Jocelyn parts her lips in shock, seeing the way the perfect structure of her face compliments her body. She’s wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown, which means she’s wearing nothing underneath. Jocelyn can never explain the type of pain she felt upon realizing that. “You’re the—”

“Dominatrix, yes,” she cheekily tells her with a glint in her eyes, eyeing her from head to toe, but the brunette young woman doesn’t notice.

Jocelyn blinks. “I was going to say  _‘The Woman’_  but dominatrix is fine as well.” She mutters, only making Irene chuckle. Sherlock furrows his brows at the two women, completely confused by them.

“And you are?”

“Sorry, Jocelyn Fray,” She stretches her hand and walks over to her, to shake hers. It feels quite awkward, and Jocelyn is still unsure of what exactly she interrupted.

Irene narrows her eyes at her, a smile still on her lips. “I know you somewhere.”

Jocelyn’s cheeks redden as she clears her throat. “Oh, you probably don’t.”

“No, no, you’re the Doctor from the papers a few months ago, I remember you.” She grins, letting go of her hand, recalling her as the woman at the crime scene who inspected the fake body she set up. “I can go upstairs or to Mr. Holmes’ room if you two need to talk.” She offers.

“That won’t be necessary,” Jocelyn shakes her head. “It can wait, really.”

“Jocelyn,” Sherlock begins.

“No, it’s okay. You have a… case ongoing. Bad timing,” she gives him a smile before tugging her jacket even tighter around herself. “I’ll just head on home, it was nice meeting you, Irene.” She smiles at her as well, going to the front door and leaving before Sherlock could even make another mistake of calling out to her again.

Sherlock clenches his jaw and takes a seat on his chair again, putting his violin back on his lap to pluck at the strings. Irene watches him for another moment, a smile forming on her face. “Is that why you don’t want to have dinner with me?”

He pauses. “Pardon?”

“You love her, don’t you?” Irene asks, almost amused and in disbelief.

For a split second, Sherlock widens his eyes. A spark of hatred courses through him. “And what has led you to  _that_  conclusion?”

“The mere fact that you’re not denying it.” Irene crosses her arms, challenging him. “And body language says almost everything, Mr. Holmes, and earlier, you were saying a lot.”

“I don’t have to deny it. It’s untrue.” Sherlock scrunches his nose. “Love, how tedious. You don’t have to lecture me, Miss Adler. I know exactly what love looks like.” He tells her. “I do watch television and read the papers.” He sarcastically remarks, but knows that the human emotion of love is not shown to an extent by television and papers.

“I don’t read the papers, Mr. Holmes.” She admits. “But I’ve broken into your room. How nice of you to keep a newspaper in there to help me kill time while waiting for you. Regardless of how  _outdated_  it is.” Irene smirks once Sherlock is at loss for words. “We all feel love at some point in our lives, Mr. Holmes. The only conflict is if we don’t reach for it in time.”

He scoffs at her, but chooses not to say another word. Mrs. Hudson enters the scene and he feels like rolling his eyes at the same man who took him to the Buckingham Palace some time ago.

***

Sherlock flicks a light on, viewing one of the passengers. It dawns over him that all the passengers are no longer alive.

_They’d pin a medal on me if I did, sir._

He lets out a shaky breath, leaning back before straightening his back once again.

“The Coventry Conundrum,” Sherlock snaps his head towards the direction where he heard a voice belonging to his brother. Mycroft emerges from behind the curtains and the expression on his face is unreadable. “What do you think of my solution?” he continues while Sherlock looks around and tries to piece everything together. “The flight of the dead.”

Sherlock finally understands, to his extent. “Plane blows up midair, mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies.” He explains to him what Mycroft already knows.

“Neat, don’t you think?” He almost smugly brags about his solution, and Sherlock could only give him a slight smirk of impression. “You’ve been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages, or were you too bored to notice the pattern?”

The detective begins to recall everything he has done the past few weeks.  _Jocelyn moving out, having new clients, Christmas, the pen, Jocelyn, Jocelyn, Joc—_

Sherlock shuts his eyes for a moment and evens his breathing pattern, he cannot deal with this right now.  _Clients, two little girls and a grown man. The sisters were not allowed to see their grandfather and the grown man knows that the remains of his aunt were not really hers. Patterns, patterns, damn him for not noticing._

Mycroft continues to contribute hints and even mentions how one of their German passengers never made the flight. “But that’s the deceased for you. Late, in every sense of the word.” He tries to muster a smirk, but knows he’s failing to do so.

Sherlock huffs. “How is the plane going to fly—Oh, of course. Unmanned aircraft. Hardly new.”

“It doesn’t fly.” His older brother informs, making Sherlock furrow his brows at him. “It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now.” Mycroft looks down, disappointed. It feels as though it has been a long time since Sherlock has seen his brother look this disappointed. “We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning,” he pauses. “—finished.”

Sherlock still doesn’t see. “Your MOD man.”

“That’s all it takes.” Mycroft bitterly remarks. “One lonely, naïve man desperate to show off. And a woman clever enough to make him feel special.” He almost sneers, clearly reminded of something quite similar from eight years ago.

Sherlock clenches his jaw. “You should screen your defense people more carefully.”

Unexpectedly, Mycroft raises his voice. “I’m not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I’m talking about you!” He claims, alerting the detective and confusing him at the same time. “Is that really all it takes for you to unravel? A woman making you feel special? Is that the great Sherlock Holmes’ weakness?” He mocks.

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock immediately interjects.

“A damsel in distress,” Mycroft ignores him, giving him a scoff mixed with disappointment. “In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook.” He gives him a disproving look. “You’ve already been through the same cycle, although the previous one was much worse.” Mycroft plasters a smile on his face, albeit disappointed. “The promise of love, the pain of loss. The joy of redemption. Then, give him a puzzle, and watch him dance.” He lifted his umbrella and did a circular motion with its tip towards Sherlock.

The consulting detective watches him for a moment, finding it ridiculous how Mycroft is comparing Irene Adler and Jocelyn Fray. Sherlock is a detective and he knows how much the two women differ from one another. It should also be obvious for his older brother, but in this case, it isn’t. Sherlock knots his brows at him. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her?” He interjects. “Was it a full minute? Or were you really  _eager_ to impress?”

“I think it was less than five seconds.” He turns to face The Woman, wearing a skintight black dress with her hair done up as it did when he first saw her.

Mycroft sighs. “I drove you into her path,” he says, not able to help but blame himself for his brother’s obvious mistake. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Miss Adler musters a smirk. “Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk.” She states, already making her way towards Sherlock.

“So do I. There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on—”

Miss Adler only slides past him, eyes on Mycroft Holmes instead. “Not you, Junior. You’re done now.” She dismisses him, holding up her camera phone while facing the most powerful man of the British Government. “There’s more. Loads more. On this phone, I’ve got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world.” She smirks at him, and Sherlock can only stand in the background. Now, this is a war between Miss Adler and the eldest Holmes sibling. Sherlock realizes that he was a mere pawn. “You have no idea how much havoc I can cause, and only one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell you masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother.” She smiles innocently at him, and Mycroft feels defeated.

Once again, Sherlock let a woman get the best of him.

***

Sherlock, Mycroft and The Woman are now located in a private area near the landing zone. He proceeds to explain everything he found while trying to break into the camera phone. Miss Adler is quite skillful when it comes to protecting her valuables; a loaded gun inside a safe, an emergency syringe filled with drugs and explosives inside a phone.

Mycroft has never felt more powerless, and he’s dealt with Sherlock before. “You’ve been very thorough,” he begins, folding the piece of paper that contains her requests. “I wish our lot were half as good as you.”

She smiles, even still finding the time to be humble. “I can’t take all the credit, I had a bit of help.” She informs, glancing at Sherlock who is sitting on a chair far from them. “Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love.”

_And that was finally something he can work with._

Sherlock is about to speak, when something catches his eye. He glances to his right and sees Jocelyn sitting on the edge of another chair. He slightly gapes at her for a moment, glancing behind him and seeing no one there. Finally, the whole room melts into the Musgrave Hall flat, ivory staining the walls. Sherlock lets out a frustrated groan. “I can’t have this right now,”

Jocelyn, the consciousness, only smiles at him. “Miss me?”

“No.” He bluntly answers. “I’m in the middle of a case.”

She purses her lips, standing up and walking towards Sherlock. “Doesn’t feel like a case, anymore. Big, bad, Mycroft looks very disappointed.”

“As he always looks when he’s speaking to me, what is the point of you?” He scoffs, looking away from her and how she’s barely towering him even though he’s sitting down and she’s on her feet. He notices how she’s wearing a casual blue blouse and a black skirt, something she definitely wasn’t wearing any time earlier.

“You figured out the code, haven’t you?” She moves to another topic. “Right? Or else, I wouldn’t be here.”

“ _Why_ are you here?” He snaps, pushing himself on his feet so he can appear taller than her. She now cranes her neck to have a better view at him.

“I’m how you figured out the passcode,” she grins at him, contrasting his deep frown.

“What? Don’t be absurd,” he scoffs. He can figure out a passcode without her, thank you very much. He can handle himself and doesn’t need her help at all.

“It’s true!” She lets out a small laugh once Sherlock turns away from her, walking off somewhere to keep their distance. “You recognized the signs, didn’t you?”

“What signs?” He narrows his eyes into slits, as if challenging her into finishing her sentence.

Jocelyn only offers another smile, but this time, it held an emotion. Something that Sherlock has avoided for many years of seeing. “You know.” She nods, walking over towards him again and putting a soft hand on his cheek. “Oh, Sherlock,” she whispers.  _“I wonder what it feels like to hold you again,”_

Sherlock blinks, lips parting in surprise. The image of her suddenly turns to smoke and fades away. He finds himself sitting on his chair like before, gasping quietly and grasping his chest as a failing attempt to stop his heart from racing.

Mycroft’s voice welcomes itself into Sherlock’s senses. “Seems desperate for my attention, which I’m sure can be arranged.”

Miss Alder rises to her feet, moving towards the table to watch the eldest Holmes sign her papers. “I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consulting criminal.” She sits on the edge of the table, legs crossing in a sultry manner. “Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys.” She smugly informs.

 _Freezer. Jocelyn. Interrogation. Never once said a word. Silence became an answer._ Sherlock cannot even imagine the kind of danger he has put her in. He’s sure that Mycroft realizes this as well.

“Do you know what he calls you? The Iceman.” She tells Mycroft before craning her neck to shift her focus towards the youngest Holmes. “And the Virgin.”

 _Nicely played, Miss Adler. Want me to tell her?_ Sherlock hears her voice inside his head and makes his screw his eyes shut, wanting his mind to let him focus. He’s onto something here.

“Didn’t even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now, that’s my kind of man.” She smiles, thinking of the man behind Moriarty.

Mycroft is quite tired of the small talk and makes a move of signing the paper and standing. “And here you are, the Dominatrix that brought the whole nation to its knees.” He sighs. “Nicely played.”

“No.” Sherlock calmly says.

Irene looks his way with a small smile, but Mycroft pauses with a blank expression, but underneath it is hope. “Sorry?” She softly asks.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I said no. Very, very close, but no. You got carried away,” he stands on his feet, making his way towards the pair. Mycroft keeps his head held high, observing his brother and the conflict between his brows. “The game was too elaborate, you were enjoying yourself too much.”

Mycroft can only furrow his brows at him. Miss Adler is still unsure where he is leading up to. “There’s no such thing as too much.”

He backtracks. “Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize entirely,” he admits. Sherlock knows to himself that he’d do anything for a fix. Being in danger, solving a case are somewhat the closest things he can get to being drug-induced. “But sentiment?” He almost chuckles. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.” He lectures.

“Sentiment?” She questions, a bit confused but still lets the smile be plastered on her face. “What are you talking about?”

“You.” He finishes.

Irene Adler gives him an astonished expression. “Oh, dear God. Look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you?” She says, thinking about how laughable the situation is. “Why? Because you’re the great  Sherlock Holmes? The clever detective in the funny hat?”

“No,” he steps forward, hand reaching down to curl around her wrist. The sudden shift of atmosphere is evident, and Mycroft couldn’t find it in himself to look away. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Sherlock did have a plan, despite causing him to lose a yearly-planned project. No, no, his brother is clearly up to something. Sherlock. Irene Adler held her breath once Sherlock is close to her, even eyeing his lips for good measure. Sherlock can feel it radiate from her body; love and lust. Both he is not clearly familiar with, but have been through before. He may never admit it to himself, but it’s true.

He leans down close to her ear and whispers, “Because I took your pulse, elevated. Your pupils dilated.” He glances to his left and reaches behind her, taking the camera phone with him. “I imagine John Watson thinks that love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and  _very_ destructive.” His words were enough to receive a raised eyebrow from Mycroft, which goes unnoticed. Sherlock begins walking away from The Woman, but she follows behind, so he turns around to face her. “When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you, the combination to your safe is your measurements. But this, this is far more intimate.” He flips the phone, and if this were a humorous situation, Mycroft might even roll his eyes at how childish his brother can be. “This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head,” he punches in a key. “You’ve once lectured me about how love is something we all feel at one point in our lives, and the only conflict is how we do not reach for it sooner. How quaint,”

Irene Adler appears conflicted, tears filling her eyes as if to confirm that she had been caught. Loving Sherlock Holmes is quite impossible, she realizes. Because then, no one can truly hide their feelings from him.

“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for, but you just couldn’t resist it, could you?” He pulls a strained smile while pressing a key. “I always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage,” He punches another key into the phone. “Thank you, for the final proof.”

Irene reaches for his hands and he glances at them. They’re soft, small and unfamiliar except for the time she held his hands in his flat, the time he measured her pulse rate. Her hands are cold, a clear sign of distress. Most importantly, he did not feel anything once she made contact with his skin. “Everything I said, it’s not real. I was just playing the game.”

“I know,” Sherlock never looks away from her. “And this is just losing.”

***

Sherlock walks down the street on the way home. He declined Mycroft’s offer of a car drive, wanting some time alone to reflect on everything he has done today. Another reason is that he isn’t exactly headed to Baker Street. Once he reaches the apartment building, he uses the elevator to the third floor, smiling at the people who work there in order to give them a false impression that he lives there. Of course, he drops the smile as soon as he’s out of their sight. Sherlock walks down the empty hallway and searches for a specific number on a door. He stands in front of the door and recalls what he has to say, and closes his eyes. He has to do this, he needs to talk about certain things.

He raises his fist to knock on the door, immediately looking down at his shoes and observing the wooden floor as though it is the most interesting thin he has seen all day. It takes another knock for Sherlock to finally hear something shuffle inside. The handle of the door jingles a bit before it swings open, revealing Jocelyn in a jumper and shorts. Her hair is an utter mess and her face is clear from makeup. Sherlock notices the half-empty glass of wine and a bottle placed on the coffee table.

Jocelyn widens her eyes. “Sherlock,” she says in surprise.

He clears his throat. “Good evening.”

“It’s midnight,”

He furrows his brows. “Hence the ‘good evening’?” Sherlock glances to his left and right, clearly trying to avoid her gaze.

“Right,” she is still in disbelief of what she’s seeing right at this moment. “What are you doing here? How did you even find my apartment?” She sighs. “It’s either Mycroft or John, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “No. I found it myself.” Sherlock nods, and it only makes Jocelyn frown. If he went out of his way to look for her apartment, then this must be important.

“Answer my other question.”

“You came to my flat to talk about something. Well,” he pushes past her and decides to welcome himself into her apartment. Jocelyn only sighs and rolls her eyes, closing the door behind her. “Talk.” He commands, shrugging off his coat and placing it neatly over the loveseat.

“Talk?” She scoffs. “Sherlock, it’s twelve in the morning.”

“Exactly. And evidently, you’re still awake.” He gestures towards the drink on the coffee table.

She realizes how Sherlock willingly came to her apartment to talk to her, without her even asking for it. Moreover, the one time he decides to do it is the only time she feels too drained to even speak about anything. Man, Sherlock’s timing is  _wonderful,_  isn’t it? “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“You clearly didn’t think that way when you came to baker Street this evening.” Sherlock interjects, wanting to get this over with already.

She scoffs, crossing her arms. “You had a guest over, of course, I’m not going to interrupt that.”

“I do believe I’ve corrected you before. She was not a guest, she was a client.” He presses, but thinks about it again. “Although, due to tonight’s events, I’m not entirely sure if she was.” He mumbles.

She shakes her head, clearly confused. “Tonight’s events?”  _Does it really matter, Jocelyn?_

Sherlock winces a bit, not understanding how Jocelyn misinterpreted his words. “I may have caused a… national project to be cancelled.” He sighs and paces through the space of her living room, to which Jocelyn tilts her head at. Until now, she can’t believe Sherlock is inside of her flat. “But it’s okay now. I’ve solved it. I have giving the camera phone to my dear brother, and now I can finally talk about the night before.” He informs her.

Jocelyn is still trying to understand what he is trying to say, but she is actually very tired to even do so. Sherlock still having the energy to walk around her flat; that is something Jocelyn can’t explain _. How is he not tired? Did he shut off his need for sleep in his brain somehow?_ If he has, he must teach Jocelyn one of these days. Now, wait a second…

“The night before?” Jocelyn runs her fingers through her hair. “What are you on about?”

“Isn’t that why you came to Baker Street? To talk about the night before and how I went too far? John has informed me of unclear actions I have done, so I am here to try to understand. I do believe that sometimes, my body cannot handle certain types of alcohol. John may have brought home some strong whiskey.” Sherlock speaks excessively fast for Jocelyn to understand, and so she waves her hand at him.

“Sherlock, it’s almost one in the morning. Can this wait?”

“No, it can’t. You see, I have another case tom—”

“Then fucking don’t bother me, okay?” She snaps at him, making the consulting detective silence himself with wide eyes. “If you’re too busy with your shit, don’t involve me in it. Make time if you really want to talk about things, alright?” She tells him in a much calmer tone, but still annoyed. “I’m going to bed, lock the door on your way out.” She mutters, walking past him and heading towards a door.

Sherlock eyes her, a bit surprised that she decided to not give him her time now. She seems to always do that to him whenever he asks for it. Whenever he’s the one to always start up a conversation, she always makes time for him. Tonight, however, is not one of those cases. She looked drained and tired, Sherlock almost wants to ask why. As much as he dislikes being in the same space as her, Sherlock knows that deep down, he still respects her. He believes that it is his natural respect for people, but it clearly isn’t. He just doesn’t like admitting that Jocelyn is still very important to him.

So, when Jocelyn closes the door of her bedroom, Sherlock pauses and lets out a sigh, glancing at the bottle and glass on the table. He looks to his right and sees a bin filled with empty alcoholic bottles. It makes him frown. Sherlock can’t help but scan every inch of her home, and what is visible within it. The scarf on the armrest is slightly damp from the rain tonight. Her boots were neatly placed by the door, also a bit damp. He keeps scanning until he sees a few boxes at one corner. It appears to be her moving boxes when she moved in. What caught his eye about the box is the label of half a name. Of course, he soon deduced it to be his name. Sherlock wants to open it, but he shouldn’t. It’s the only box with a label on it, it must be important considering the fact that it’s out and recently opened.

He chooses not to open the box and proceeds to the exit with a heaving sigh after retrieving his coat.  _Good choice, Sherl._  Sherlock almost groans at himself before he locks the front door, closing it and then walking back to his real home in Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update. been busy with college entrance tests :)  
> leave a comment, it motivates me x

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to leave a comment :)


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